“He must have made a mistake, in the hurry of packing,” exclaimed the girl, in deep distress. “He must have marked them wrong!”
“Who bought them?” demanded Steele.
The dealer shook his head.
“It was a gentleman, evidently an Englishman, though he said he lived in Paris. He declined to give his name, and paid cash. He took the pictures with him in a cab to his hotel. He did not even state where he was stopping.” The dealer paused, then added: “He explained to me that he collected for the love of pictures, and that he found the notoriety attaching to the purchase of famous paintings extremely distasteful.”
“Have you ever seen this gentleman before?” urged Steele.
“Yes,” the art agent answered reflectively, “he has from time to time picked up several of Mr. Saxon’s pictures, and his conversation indicated that he was equally familiar with the work of Marston himself. He said he knew the Paris agent of Mr. Saxon quite well, and it is possible that through that source you might be able to locate him. I am very sorry the mistake occurred, and, while I am positive that you will find the letters ‘N. F. S.’ (not for sale) on the two pictures I have held, I shall do all in my power to trace the lost ones.”
In one of the packing rooms, the suspicions of Duska were corroborated. Two canvases were found about the same shape and size as the two that had been bought by the foreign art-lover. Palpably, Saxon, in his hurry of boxing, had wrongly labeled them.
In the flood of her despair, the girl found room for a new pang. It was not only because these pictures were the fulfillment of Saxon’s most mature genius that their loss became a little tragedy; not even merely because in them she felt that she had in a measure triumphed over Marston’s hold on the man she loved, but because by every association that was important to her and to him they were canonized.
That evening, Steele made his announcement. He was going to Havre and Paris. If anything could be learned at that end, he would find it out, and while there he would trace the pictures.
“You see,” he assured her, with a cheery confidence he by no means felt, “it’s really much simpler than it looks. He was hurt, and he did not recover at once. By the time he reaches France, the sea-voyage will have restored him, and he will cable. Those tramp steamers are slow, and he hasn’t yet had time. If he takes a little longer to get well, I’ll be there to look after him, and bring him home.”