"My wish is that my son should do his duty," replied Marven sadly.
Guy threw back his head and faced the Jew.
"Mr. Flurscheim," he said, "I am the thief who stole your picture."
Father and son were astounded at the result of the bold confession. They had expected amazement, probably immediate denunciation, but, instead, the Jew threw up his hands deprecatingly, and fussily remarked: "There, there, there. What if you did? I could very well afford the loss, couldn't I?"
Guy stared. He thought that he was not believed, that, possibly, Flurscheim imagined that he had taken leave of his senses.
"But it is true, Mr. Flurscheim. I—Guy Hora—stole your pictures. See, I can give you proof."
He turned to a little silver-bound casket lying on the table, and took from it the miniature which was so like Meriel. He cast one longing glance at the portrait as he handed it to the connoisseur.
"Well, what if you did steal my picture," snapped Flurscheim, "there is no need to inform the whole world of the fact, is there?"
Guy was bewildered.
"I shall say no more about it," continued Flurscheim, "except to advise you to keep that miniature out of the sight of prying eyes, and to take the earliest opportunity of getting rid of that d——d scoundrel of a valet of yours."