We tried to argue it out on the way up-town, but with only indifferent success. Granted the premise that Richmond had actually stolen the "Red Duchess," what were his motives in multiplying copies of the picture, a proceeding that must infallibly end in the detection of his crime? And the supreme question—what had finally become of the original?
My theory was simple enough. The man was mentally unbalanced, the result of brooding over his own failure in art. He had stolen the picture, possessed with the idea that by study of it he should discover the secret of its power. He had made copies of the picture and sold them in order to supply himself with the necessities of life. At the end, knowing himself to be dying, he had caused the original to be returned to the gallery at Petersburg, a contribution to the conscience fund.
Indiman's argument was more subtle. "Granted," he said, "that the poor chap was mentally irresponsible, and that he actually did steal the picture. But you must take into account his colossal vanity, his monumental egotism. Richmond never admitted for a moment that he was a failure as an artist; there was a cabal against him, and that accounted for everything. This affair was simply his revenge upon his critics and detractors; he would turn out these reproductions of a masterpiece so perfect in their technique as not to be distinguished from their original, nor indeed from each other. So having set the artistic world by the ears, he would enjoy his triumph, at first in secret, and afterwards openly."
"But what was the picture returned to the Hermitage?"
"One of these same copies—that was the supreme sarcasm."
"The original, then—the 'Red Duchess'?"
"The fuel in the stove consisted of some strips of painted canvas," said Indiman, gravely. "I don't know, I can't be sure—they were almost consumed when I shut the door."
"An imperfect copy," I hazarded.
"Some day we will take a trip to the Hermitage to make sure," answered Indiman. "'Where ignorance is bliss,' etc. What do you think, Blake?" he continued, turning to our companion.
"It's all the same to me, sir," answered Blake, a little ruefully. "It was a big thing, right enough, but somehow I seem to have missed it all round. Well, good-night, sir, if you'll kindly set me down at this corner."