"Or bring it with you when you come down to Priory Court for Christmas, if I can induce you to leave town."
"I shall be delighted to come, I assure you."
"Then we'll consider it settled."
Sir Lucius lighted a fresh cigar and rose. His whole manner had changed; he chuckled softly, and his smile was pleasant to see.
"I have something to show you, my boy," he said. "It is the richest find that ever came my way. Ha, ha! not many collectors have ever been so fortunate. I know where to pry about on the Continent, and I have made good use of my holidays. I sent home a couple of boxes filled with rare bargains; but this one—"
"You will be rousing the envy of the South Kensington Museum if you keep on," Nevill interrupted, gaily; he was in high spirits because the recent disagreeable topic had been shelved indefinitely. "What is it?" he added.
"I'll show you in a moment, my boy. It will open your eyes when you see it. You will agree that I am a lucky dog. By gad, what a stir it will cause in art circles!"
Sir Lucius crossed the room, and from behind a trunk he took a flat leather case. He unlocked and opened it, his back screening the operation, and when he turned around he held in one hand a canvas, unframed, about twenty inches square; the rich coloring and the outlines of a massive head were brought out by the gaslight.
"What do you think of that?" he cried.
Nevill approached and stared at it. His eyes were dilated, his lips parted, and the color was half-driven from his cheeks, as if by a sudden shock. He had expected to see a bit of Saracenic armor, made in Birmingham, or a cleverly forged Corot. But this—