He threw the boot down on the hearth and before he drew off the other, sat gazing into the mirror at the portrait. Suddenly the smile left his face and he started a little. The eyes of old Dirk Van Camp were small and black and deeply-set under heavy brows; George had noticed them especially a few minutes before, while examining the picture; and now as he looked into the glass, he saw them glint in a marvelously lifelike manner.
For an instant it was in his mind to turn and stare at the portrait; but like a flash he regained control of himself, and sat motionless, gazing into the mirror. Some few minutes passed in this way; but he could now detect nothing out of the ordinary. True, the eyes had an unusually lifelike appearance; but that may have been due to the skill of the artist, or, perhaps, it was the unsteady light of the candles. He lay back in the chair in the lounging posture of one entirely at ease; but never for an instant did his apparently careless glance leave the pictured eyes. At length he muttered:
“It’s the lights; their flickering gave the appearance of movement; and the varnish upon the canvas is the cause of the really lifelike sparkle.”
THE HAND PAUSED
He was about to give the matter up and proceed with his preparations for retiring when a thought struck him. With the utmost naturalness he stretched out his hand toward the table, and while so doing, his eyes remained fixed upon the pictured ones in the mirror. With a thrill he saw these latter follow the hand; beyond the shadow of a doubt they turned slowly and keenly; and when the hand paused and clutched the pistol butt, there was a change in their expression—and their steadiness wavered.
Calmly George drew the pistol toward him and made a pretense of examining the lock; all the time his heart was bumping in a tumult; strange thoughts filled his brain.
“The eyes of the portrait are removable,” he told himself. “There is a door or a panel behind it, and some one is stationed there watching me.”
He sat for a short space nonplussed; and all the time he saw the eyes fixed upon him. The situation was an odd one; he did not know how to meet it.
“It’s a Tory house,” were George’s thoughts, “and there may be those hidden within its walls of whom I know nothing.” An idea flashed upon him that made him start. “And yet I might know considerable of them,” he added; “and I might be suspected of knowing even more than I do.”