My lord smiled. “No? And does my friend Mr Fontenoy agree with that?”
Mr Fontenoy said nothing. My lord tapped the lid of his snuff-box. “What of the sketch that was taken of me when I was eighteen?” he asked softly.
It was plain Rensley knew nothing of this; equally plain was it that my lord had impressed the two eldest people present. “It is true that there was once such a portrait, sir,” said old Mr Clapperly. “But it exists no longer.”
“You may be right,” said my lord politely. “It is a long time since I left England. But perhaps you have not looked for it in the right place.”
“We have searched both in this house, and at Barham, sir. It is not to be found.”
“I see that I must assist you,” smiled my lord.
There was an alert look in Mr Brent’s face. “Indeed, sir, and do you know where this likeness is to be found?”
“I hope so, Mr Brent. But do not let us be rash. If the likeness is still where I hid it, then I can find it.”
Mr Fontenoy lost some of his primness. Everyone was staring eagerly at my lord. “Where you hid it, sir?”
“Where I hid it,” repeated my lord. “Now I have overheard you to say, Mr Fontenoy, that young Robert Tremaine was a romantic youth. It is very true! Years have not dulled the edge of my romantic fervour.” He laid down his snuff-box on the table before him, and his strangely compelling eyes swept the room. “They have only sharpened a brain that was always acute, gentlemen. You cannot fail to have observed a forethought in me that excites the admiration. I had it even as a boy.” He smiled benignantly. “Such a contingency as the present one I dimly expected, even in those far-off days. I saw that the day might come when I might desire to prove my identity. The romantic boy, Mr Fontenoy, hid a picture of himself in this very room, to serve as a proof if ever he should need one.”