"Thanks," said Blair, with a short nod. "At any rate, Prince Rivani, you have made it clear why I should shoot you!"
[CHAPTER XXVII.]
Prince Rivani opened the door with a low bow, and the two men went back to the salon. The prince was pale but perfectly self possessed, and Blair very grave and quiet. The picture still floated before his eyes: the great black rock and the white, wan figure still stretched upon it, almost in the grasp of the cruel waves. His Margaret! Who could have painted it? And the prince had said that the picture had made the artist famous! He must find out that artist and get at the bottom of the mystery.
The salon was fuller than when he had left it, and he went and sat down in a quiet part of the room to wait until the prince had made some excuse for openly giving a reason for the duel of the morrow.
So he sat in his corner, outwardly calm and self-possessed, but thinking a great deal more of Margaret than the duel.
Presently Blair saw a tall, patrician man, with long hair and a beard, and the unmistakable air of an artist, enter the room, and absently noticed that he was instantly surrounded. He caught the name—it was Signor Alfero, the great artist; and scraps of the conversation floated to Blair's corner.
Suddenly he started. They were talking of the picture; he leaned forward and listened intently.
"What have you done with the masterpiece, prince?" Blair heard him ask.