"He is dead. He was drowned whilst we were bathing in the river beneath. I was with him at the time, but I could not save him. His body was never recovered—it was an awful affair. He was only seven and twenty."
"Younger than you?"
"Oh, no—older. He was the heir. Poor Franz!"
I looked at the portrait with increased interest, and Siebach gazed at it too. There was a disagreeable expression on his face.
"It is a fine portrait," I said.
"Very—an Auberthal. You know Auberthal, of course? A splendid painter. Singular, now, I forgot that he will arrive here to-day. He has a long-standing engagement to visit me."
I was very glad to hear it, for I had known Auberthal when he was a mere boy, studying in Garcia's "Atelier Espagnol." We had seen a great deal of each other, and I had liked him exceedingly. Although Siebach was very entertaining, I did not altogether trust him; a solitude only relieved by his presence did not at the moment appear alluring.
I expressed my pleasure, and began to walk about the study, admiring the family portraits, of which there were a great number. Under one of them I noticed a curtain drawn across the wall, and, supposing it to conceal a picture or a cabinet, I very innocently put out my hand as if to draw it on one side.
