"I saw it at Prince Rivani's. You can see it, no doubt. Do you think I am dreaming? That I have conjured the picture from my own imagination? Do you think I am going mad?"
Austin Ambrose certainly did think so, but he said:
"No, no; certainly not. But—but——"
"You do think so. Let me give you direct evidence that I know what I am about," said Blair. "The picture is Prince Rivani's; he took me to his private room to see it; it is the talk of all Italy, Europe, for what I know. It is a magnificent picture, terrible, moving, to any one; but judge what effect it must have had on me when I say that it was the place itself, the face and figure themselves of my poor lost darling."
Austin Ambrose stared at him.
"And Prince Rivani showed you this! What did he tell you about it, its history and so on?"
"Nothing," said Blair, gloomily. "I was so startled that I was almost beside myself, and I was about to ask him the history of the picture, and by whom it was painted, when he—you will think I am mad now, Austin!—refused to tell me anything excepting that the picture was a famous one. And he brought the interview to an abrupt conclusion by challenging me to fight him——"
Austin Ambrose's face worked.
"Which you refused?" he said.
"For which I asked his reasons. He declined to give me any one, calling me a liar, and so——" he laughed, grimly—"provided me with an excuse for shooting him!"