Critics will bear me out in these statements; but Daphne scorned criticism, and would not listen to any reflections on Angelo's ancestor.
"Ah! I suppose it's the case of Shakespeare v. Bacon over again. Well, for my part I believe in Shakespeare. Say good-night to papa for me."
And she danced gaily off to bed at an earlier hour than usual. Was she going to dream of the artist?
Now, ever since my interest had been roused in the critique of the picture my eyes had been fixed on the fireplace, where Angelo, after lighting his cigar, had thrown the burnt paper, and in one corner of the fender I had fancied I could perceive a charred piece of paper. Accordingly after Daphne had gone I pounced on this fragment. It crumbled to black powder in my hands, save one little unburnt piece.
This piece contained six words only; yet they were sufficient to cause my pulse to throb more quickly:
an Anglo-Indian officer to judge.
That was all; and I had some difficulty in making out even those few words, owing to the blackened aspect of the paper. I did not doubt that they formed a part of the critique, and that the paragraph in which they occurred was one that the artist was anxious to conceal from us.
The memory of my lost brother had been strangely revived by the events of the day, and the phrase "an Anglo-Indian officer" naturally and immediately associated itself with his name. It was impossible in my then state of ignorance to establish a connexion between my brother and Angelo's picture, and the various hypotheses I framed to account for the admission of his name into the art-critique would fill a chapter.
"It was a mean trick of Angelo's," I muttered, "to mutilate that paper. I am certain it contained a reference to George. I would give fifty pounds to know his reason for so doing. No matter; this little mystification can't last very long, for I'll send to England for another copy to-morrow."