CHAPTER XIII. A STRIKING LIKENESS.

Venables regarded the painting with deep interest. All his journalistic instincts were now aroused. It appeared to him that he was on the eve of tapping a perfect gold mine of sensational "copy."

"Now are you quite sure you are not making a mistake?" he asked. "You have not been misled by some chance likeness, because this is rather an important matter for me. My people expect smartness, but they have a rooted objection to mistakes."

"I tell you there is no mistake here," Walter Lance said definitely. "I am prepared to swear that that portrait was painted by my uncle. Of course, you remember the sensation there was at the time when the pictures were stolen. They vanished from the studio in the most mysterious fashion. Two of them were of comparative unimportance, but yonder work my uncle reckons to be the best thing he has ever done. And I quite agree with him."

"A portrait, I suppose?" Venables asked.

"Well, my uncle always denies it. He says the face is more or less a fancy one. And while he is prepared to admit that it is coloured by recollection, he says it is not intended for anybody in particular. But I can see a likeness there."

"Of course you can, and a very strong one, too," Venables exclaimed. "Do you mean to tell me that your uncle cannot see that that picture is Miss Vera Rayne?"

"That is the point I have put to him more than once. He says he can't see it at all. And there are others who share the same opinion. On the other hand, there are certain friends of ours who take the same view of it as I do myself."

"And they are right," Venables said vigorously. "My word, we appear to be only on the fringe of this mystery! It occurs to me that the thief who stole that picture did not steal it for the mere sake of gain, but merely because it is what it is. No doubt the other two works were merely stolen as a blind. I don't wish to appear curious, my dear fellow, but what relation is Miss Rayne to Lord Ravenspur or yourself?"

"Ah, that I can't tell you," Walter replied. "Strange as it may seem, my uncle has always refused to say anything about Miss Rayne's antecedents. All I know is that she is well bred, exceedingly beautiful, and perfect in every way."

"Oh, of course," Venables said hastily. "But here is Stevens back again. It wouldn't be a bad plan to ask him point blank where that picture comes from."

Walter nodded his approval as Stevens came back into the room with a notebook in his hand. He started uneasily as Venables literally fired the question at him. But there was no time for the man to prevaricate.

"It doesn't belong to me," he said. "As a matter of fact, it is the property of a man who used to lodge with me some time ago."

"Well, it is a very fine piece of work," Venables said, in a matter-of-fact voice. "I suppose your friend is a poor man; otherwise he would not live in a place like this. Do you think he would like to sell the picture?"

Stevens replied, with obvious confusion, that he could not say. His friend was not an Englishman, and where he was to be found at that moment Stevens could not say. There appeared to be nothing more for it but to change the subject. Then, as he stood looking at the painted face, a sudden inspiration come to Walter. He wondered why he had not thought of it before. His mind went swiftly back to the moment in the studio when Lord Ravenspur had appeared so disturbed over the unexpected finding of the photograph by one of his guests. Here was the photo idealised. Could there be any connection between the thief of the picture and Lord Ravenspur's midnight guest?

"Perhaps I can stimulate your memory," he said. "Isn't your friend an Italian? Hasn't he got something to do with the variety stage? Come, you can answer my question; surely it is an easy one. Isn't your friend in London at the present moment?"

Stevens stammered and hesitated. There was something like fear in his eyes as he glanced furtively at the questioner. Lance felt quite sure that he was on the right track now.

"Now, look here," he said. "We have come on important business, and if you refuse to help us, we may find some other way of inducing you to tell the truth. On the other hand, there need be no unpleasantness, and there is no reason why you shouldn't put a five-pound note in your pocket. Now isn't that picture the property of a man named Valdo who is at present under engagement at the Imperial Palace Theatre? Now, yes or no."

"I don't know how you found it out," Stevens said, wriggling about uncomfortably. "But it is true enough. Valdo was living with me about three years ago. He came back one night with the picture in his possession."

"Not in a frame, I suppose?" Lance asked.

"He brought it rolled up. The frame was put upon it a day or two later by Silva himself."

"Silva!" Venables exclaimed. "I thought his name was Valdo."

"That is his stage name," Stevens explained. "You see, Silva had not come to England very long. He was very poor then, and I understood that he was looking for some Englishman, who had promised him employment whenever he crossed the Channel."

"Was the Englishman ever found?" Lance asked.

"That I can't tell you," Stevens went on. "Silva is very close about his own affairs, and I believe that he belonged to some secret society. He told me the picture had been painted for him by a clever compatriot of his, who was trying to make a name for himself. Of course, it was nothing to me, and I asked no questions about it. When Silva went away to fulfil an engagement up in the North, he asked me to take care of the portrait, and it has been hanging on the wall opposite ever since. I hope there is nothing wrong about it."

"Indeed there is," Lance said significantly. "Now, if you would like to help us, we will make it worth your while. If you don't, why, it is more than possible that you may find yourself in an awkward position. I don't mind telling you that that portrait was painted by Lord Ravenspur, and that it was stolen one night from his studio some three years ago."

Stevens gave a sudden start.

"I recollect it," he cried; "I recollect it perfectly. I remember that there was a great outcry at the time, and that a large reward was offered for the recovery of the pictures. Lord, if I had only known. And to think that all this time----"

"That reward would have been yours," Venables smiled grimly. "You would not have allowed your friendship for this man Silva----"

"Friendship!" Stevens said contemptuously. "What is friendship where money is concerned? And, after all, Silva was no real pal of mine. Precious little use he was to me."

"Oh, you'll find us useful enough if you play your cards correctly," Venables said. "We happen to know that you are on good terms with this man Valdo, or Silva, whatever you call him. In fact, we know that he gave you money tonight. You are quite astute enough to see how much better it will pay you to be on our side. Therefore, you will see the advantage of saying nothing to this Italian about our visit here tonight. Here is a five-pound note to go on with, and if I want you again, as is exceedingly probable, I will write to you and tell you where to meet me. I don't think we need detain you any more at present."

"Then you don't want to know anything about Fitzjohn Square?" Stevens asked. "I can tell you a thing or two."

"I think that will keep for the present," said Lance. "Good-night, and remember that silence is your policy."

Stevens grinned and nodded as he tucked the five-pound note into his waistcoat pocket. His recent visitors went off together in the direction of Venables' rooms.

"That was a brilliant inspiration of yours," the latter said, presently. "Now, what on earth put it into your head to ask if that man Valdo had any connection with the stolen pictures? To my mind, your question was almost an inspiration."

"Well, hardly that," Lance proceeded to explain. "But, first of all, let me tell you the events which led up to our discovery tonight. I think you ought to know. I am quite sure that the secret is safe in your hands. Now listen, carefully."

Venables listened carefully enough to Walter's extraordinary story of the strange photograph, and of the mysterious attack on Lord Ravenspur in his studio, and the subsequent discovery of the yellow handbill. In the light of these disclosures everything was perfectly plain to a mind so astute as that of Venables. He shook his head gravely.

"This looks like a vendetta," he said. "You may depend upon it that Miss Vera Rayne is the unconscious cause of all the mischief. Of course, I am treading on delicate ground now, but I suppose it is just possible that Miss Rayne may be Lord Ravenspur's daughter. We know that Ravenspur used to spend a great part of his time in Corsica, and everybody is aware of the fact that love-making out there is a dangerous business. It looks very much to me as if this man Valdo was working out a plan of revenge, either on his own behalf, or on behalf of some noble family, hailing from that picturesque corner of Europe. My theory is further strengthened by the mysterious way in which these things have come about. See how anxious your uncle is to keep everything out of the hands of the police. I feel quite sure now that the death of Louis Delahay is all part of the same drama. It wouldn't be a bad plan to mention Luigi Silva's name to your uncle, and ask him if he has ever heard of the man before."

"That is a good idea," Walter exclaimed. "I'll ask my uncle the question before I go to bed tonight."