"What could have induced him to tell such a falsehood?" I said.
"Do not say falsehood," replied the Baronet; "say error of memory, rather. He was thinking of some other picture, perhaps?"
"No, 'The Death of Cæsar;' that was the work he referred to, I am certain."
"Perhaps he confounded me with some intending purchaser. Why he should wish to conceal the destination of his picture from you I cannot tell. But there, he's a curious fellow," muttered the Baronet thoughtfully. "Genius always is eccentric, I suppose. He will stand for hours, I am told, on the cliffs, solitary and melancholy, watching the Atlantic breakers and soliloquising like a second Manfred. If I didn't know that art was his only mistress, I should fancy he was in love."
"Your fancy is not far removed from the truth," I murmured to myself. "When you were at Paris," I asked, "did you hear anything of a fracas between Angelo and a military officer in connection with this picture?"
"Yes, I remember the affair very well."
"Can you tell me the name of the officer?"
"No; he was never heard of again. I think he received an order that very day to rejoin his regiment. It was that fracas, I believe, that led to my becoming the possessor of the picture."
"How was that?"
"I had offered Angelo £4,000 for it, which he refused. He could gain more by exhibiting it, he said. However, after this affair with the officer, he came of his own accord to me and tendered it at the price I had named. He explained his change of mind by what seemed to me an absurd statement. A clique of artists, jealous of his success, had vowed to destroy his picture. He resolved to exhibit it no more publicly. He thought it would be safer in some private collection and he stipulated that I must allow him to have a sight now and again of his beloved masterpiece. I put all this down to morbid vanity, but, of course, I professed to believe him and sympathised with him, very glad to obtain the picture on any terms."