Mr. Foss had made a tardy reappearance, and Michael found himself wondering what was the nature of that confidential interview which the writer had had with Sir Gregory.
Going back to the long sitting-room, he stood watching the daylight fade and speculating upon the one mystery within a mystery—the extraordinary effect which Adele had produced upon him.
Mike Brixan had known many beautiful women, women in every class of society. He had known the best and the worst, he had jailed a few, and had watched one face a French firing squad one grey wintry morning at Vincennes. He had liked many, nearly loved one, and it seemed, cold-bloodedly analysing his emotions, that he was in danger of actually loving a girl whom he had never met before that morning.
“Which is absurd,” he said aloud.
“What is absurd?” asked Knebworth, who had come into the room unnoticed.
“I also wondered what you were thinking,” smiled old Mr. Longvale, who had been watching the young man in silence.
“I—er—well, I was thinking of the portrait.” Michael turned and indicated the picture above the fireplace, and in a sense he spoke the truth, for the thread of that thought had run through all others. “The face seemed familiar,” he said, “which is absurd, because it is obviously an old painting.”
Mr. Longvale lit two candles and carried one to the portrait. Again Michael looked, and again the majesty of the face impressed him.
“That is my great-great-uncle, Charles Henry,” said old Mr. Longvale with pride. “Or, as we call him affectionately in our family, the Great Monsieur.”
Michael’s face was half-turned toward the window as the old man spoke. . . . Suddenly the room seemed to spin before his eyes. Jack Knebworth saw his face go white and caught him by the arm.