"Well it is contrary to his usual practice," my uncle said drily. "We haven't found him backward in talking about his work, have we, Frank?"
"I don't think modesty is a disease with him," I admitted. "Do you know whether he was as secretive about his 'Fall of Cæsar' before he sprung it on an admiring world?"
"I believe he was. Permitted none to enter his studio till the work was finished. He claims to have rediscovered a secret known to the great artists of classical times, and does not want to reveal it to contemporary rivals. Between ourselves, I don't believe there is any mystery about it, but it suits his purpose to pretend there is. Our friend knows something about human nature, and to throw a veil of secrecy round your work while you are doing it is quite good business, provided, of course, the work is good when finished. Let me see, you were in Paris last spring. Of course you saw the great picture?"
"No, we haven't seen it," my uncle replied. "Have you?"
"Have I?" said the Baronet, looking as much astonished as if he had been asked whether he knew the alphabet. "My dear fellow, what are you talking about? Don't you know the picture is here?"
"Here?" was the simultaneous ejaculation of my uncle and myself.
"Here. In this house. In my gallery."
That which eludes the most painstaking search is often revealed by mere accident. Without any design on our part, we were at length within measurable distance of seeing that which we had been vainly trying to see—to wit, Angelo's famous picture.
"Did you buy it from the Baron?" I asked.