As they anxiously approached, they saw above the portrait another familiar canvas; a landscape presenting a stretch of valley and checkered flat, with hills beyond, and a sky tuneful with the spirit of a Kentucky June.
Then, as they came near enough to read the labels, Steele drew back, startled, and his brows darkened with anger.
“My God!” he breathed.
The girl standing at his elbow read on a brass tablet under each frame, “Frederick Marston, pnxt.”
“What does it mean?” she indignantly demanded, looking at the man whose face had become rigid and unreadable.
“It means they have stolen his pictures!” he replied, shortly. “It means infamous thievery at least, and I’m afraid—” In his anger and surprise, he had almost forgotten to whom he was speaking. Now, with realization, he bit off his utterance.
She was standing very straight.
“You needn’t be afraid to tell me,” she said quietly; “I want to know.”
“I’m afraid,” said Steele, “it means foul play. Of course,” he added in a moment, “Marston himself is not a party to the fraud. It’s conceivable that his agent, this man St. John, has done this in Marston’s absence. I must get to Paris and see.”