“I don’t see how it is possible for him to have had anything to do with Annette’s death,“ replied Douglas thoughtfully, ”for the very reason you pointed out when Brett was accusing him this morning. It would be physically impossible for him to have left the room and locked and bolted the door on the inside.“
“What do you think caused her death?”
“I think it highly probable that she committed suicide.”
“You don’t think the draft blew out the gas?”
“A draft? Where on earth could it come from? Both windows were tightly closed, and the door also. Upon my word,” turning to look at her, “you don’t place any faith in that old legend about the ghost—of your great-great-aunt’s habit of extinguishing all lights in her room after eleven o’clock at night?”
“Yes, I do,” reluctantly.
“Oh, come now,” a chuckle escaped Douglas, but it died out suddenly. He had remarkably keen eyesight, and as he raised his head he encountered a steady stare from an oil portrait hanging on the wall opposite him. It was not the stare that attracted his attention, but the remarkable whiteness of the eyeballs in the painted face on which the light from the window was reflected. As he looked the eyes seemed to blink, then were gone. With an exclamation he rose, startling Eleanor by his sudden movement, and walked across the room until he stood directly in front of the painting, which was life-size and represented a handsome man in a navy uniform of the War of 1812. On closer inspection, the eyes appeared not to be painted in at all, and were represented by shadows. As he retreated from the portrait, however, the shadows took form and he distinctly saw the long lashes and eyeballs. It was an optical illusion, cleverly conceived by the artist, and, satisfied on that point, he returned to Eleanor, who had watched his movements with growing curiosity.
“Why this sudden interest in my great-great-grandfather?” she asked.
“It’s a fine portrait.” He reseated himself by her side. “I didn’t notice it last night. What is the old gentleman’s name?”
“Commodore Barry Thornton; my father was named for him. He inherited the same black hair, blue eyes, and tastes of that old sea-fighter,” nodding toward the portrait. “Do you know on what grounds they arrested Fred Lane for the murder of Senator Carew?”