“Well painted? Of course it’s well—it’s magnificently painted!”
He chuckled contentedly behind her.
“Then what’s the matter? What’s the trouble?”
“You know what’s the matter. You know quite well.”
She turned sharply round on the sofa and faced him with angry eyes.
“There was a great actor once whose portrait was painted by a great artist, an artist as great as you are. It was exhibited and then handed over to the actor. From that moment it disappeared. No one ever saw it. The actor never mentioned it. And yet it was a masterpiece. When the actor died a search was made for the portrait, and it was found hidden in an attic of his house. It had been slashed almost to pieces with a knife. Till to-day I could not understand such a deed as that—the killing of a masterpiece. But now I can understand it.”
“He shall have it and put a knife through it if he likes. But”—he snapped out the word with sudden fierce emphasis—“but I’ll exhibit it first.”
“He’ll never let you!” Miss Van Tuyn almost cried out.
“Won’t he? That was the bargain!”
“He didn’t promise. I remember quite well all that was said. He didn’t promise.”