"Well, no more I can, really. This was a sort of a miracle and it painted itself."
The same impulse moved them both, and they returned to the easel on which was the picture, but with a quick movement Larry flung the drapery over the frame again and hid the picture.
"Didn't you say you had a message for me from your father?"
Barty accepted the change of subject with his accustomed resignation to Larry's moods.
"I have. He said he'd be at home to-morrow afternoon—that's Sunday—and he wanted to see you on very special business."
"Do you know what about?" Larry asked, without interest, while he arranged the many-coloured silken drapery in effective folds over the picture.
"I believe old Prendergast's dying."
Barty hesitated; then, remembering that his father had not enjoined secrecy, he rushed into his subject. "Larry, I believe the chance we've been waiting for is come—or as good as come!"
"Do you mean that it's Prendergast the Member who's dying? Do you mean my getting into Parliament?"
Larry swung round on Barty, and fired the questions at him, quick as shots from a revolver.