The end came swiftly. A short silence followed the professor’s remark. Then Arnesson spoke.
“You say you know who the Bishop is, Mr. Vance. That being the case, why all this palaver?”
“There was no great haste.” Vance was almost casual. “And there was the hope of tying up a few loose ends,—hung juries are so unsatisfact’ry, don’t y’ know. . . . Then again, this port is excellent.”
“The port? . . . Ah yes.” Arnesson glanced at our glasses, and turned an injured look on the professor. “Since when have I been a teetotaler, sir?”
The other gave a start, hesitated, and rose.
“I’m sorry, Sigurd. It didn’t occur to me . . . you never drink in the forenoon.” He went to the sideboard and, filling another glass, placed it, with an unsteady hand, before Arnesson. Then he refilled the other glasses.
No sooner had he resumed his seat than Vance uttered an exclamation of surprise. He had half risen and was leaning forward, his hands resting on the edge of the table, his eyes fixed with astonishment on the mantel at the end of the room.
“My word! I never noticed that before. . . . Extr’ordin’ry!”
So unexpected and startling had been his action, and so tense was the atmosphere, that involuntarily we swung about and looked in the direction of his fascinated gaze.
“A Cellini plaque!” he exclaimed. “The Nymph of Fontainebleau! Berenson told me it was destroyed in the seventeenth century. I’ve seen its companion piece in the Louvre. . . .”