"Il Divino must have had a motive for the—lie," I replied, with an emphasis on the last word, as a protest against my uncle's euphemism. "He evidently wishes the destination of his picture to remain unknown to us."
"Why should he wish that? And even if he does, it is impossible for him to conceal it. The sale of so notable a work of art would be mentioned in all the papers, together with the name of the buyer."
"Not necessarily. An agent may have bought it for a client who wishes his name to be kept secret. Or the sale may have been a private affair between Angelo and the purchaser."
"Granted," he agreed. "To tell you the truth, Frank, there's something about Angelo's success I can't understand. How, after his many failures, he has contrived, by the exhibition of one picture only, to acquire so great a name is a mystery."
"So the public seem to think. Here is the Standard's account of it."
I passed the paper to my uncle, who read as far as he could, and then exclaimed:
"The end has been torn off!"
"Yes, by Angelo this morning when he lit his cigar; designedly torn off, I believe. This is a fragment of the burnt piece," I said, laying it before him.
My uncle did not betray the excitement that I had expected of him.