"Impossible!"
"It is only too true. Did you read the papers while you were away?"
"No; I scarcely glanced at them. But I can't believe—"
"Wait," said Nevill. From a pocket-book he produced a newspaper clipping, which he handed silently to his uncle. It contained an account of the robbery.
Sir Lucius read to the end. Then his cheeks swelled out, and turned from red to purple; his eyes blazed with a hot anger.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, "was ever a man so cruelly imposed upon? It is a d—nable shame! You are right, Victor. This is the stolen Rembrandt!"
"Undoubtedly. I can't tell you how sorry I feel for you." Nevill's expression was most peculiar as he spoke, and the semblance of a smile hovered about his lips.
"What is to be done?" gasped his uncle, who had flung the canvas on a chair, and was stamping savagely about the room. "It is clear as daylight. The thieves disposed of the painting in Munich, to my lying rascal of a Jew. Damn him, I wish I had him here!"
"Under the peculiar circumstances, my dear uncle, I should venture to suggest—"
"There is only one course open. This very night—no, the first thing to-morrow morning—I will take the picture to Lamb and Drummond's and tell them the whole story. I can't honorably do less."