"What gave you that idea?" inquired Angelo with a smile of amusement.
"Yourself, I believe. Don't you remember telling us at Rivoli that you had sold your picture to a Spanish nobleman?"
"I certainly do not remember saying so," replied the artist with a decided emphasis on the negative adverb, and speaking in the tone of one who was quite sure of the truth of his statement.
"Oh, yes, you did," I returned quietly. "De Argandarez was the name of the nobleman—an old hidalgo of Aragon, you know."
"I think I remember it, too," said Daphne timidly.
"We are three to one, you see," remarked my uncle.
"Far be it from me," said Angelo, "to differ from Miss Leslie, but I certainly have no recollection of ever saying any such thing. I was guilty of falsehood if I did. How could I have said so, when Sir Hugh was the only one who offered to purchase?"
This argument was of course unanswerable. The doctor offered us the tribute of a pitying smile, as if to say, "This is how a man of genius is liable to be misinterpreted."
We had now reached the middle of the hall, when a sudden exclamation broke from Sir Hugh, and on looking up I saw that worthy Baronet staring at a certain extent of oak panelling in the wall that faced the windows. There was nothing remarkable about this extent of panelling: it held no pictures, that was all; but the Baronet's words soon showed us what was wrong.
"Why, how's this?" he cried in a voice that was almost a shout. "The picture's gone!"