“So I did; but I probably forgot to tell you which staircase to take. Coming from your bedroom, I ought to have said the fourth door to the right. It’s a puzzling house, because my uncle keeps adding to it from year to year. He built this room last summer for his modern pictures.”

 

Young Rainer, pausing to open another door, touched an electric button which sent a circle of light about the walls of a long room hung with canvases of the French impressionist school.

 

Faxon advanced, attracted by a shimmering¹ Monet, but Rainer laid a hand on his arm.

 

“He bought that last week. But come along—I’ll show you all this after dinner. Or he will, rather—he loves it.”

 

“Does he really love things?”

 

Rainer stared, clearly perplexed² at the question. “Rather! Flowers and pictures especially! Haven’t you noticed the flowers? I suppose you think his manner’s cold; it seems so at first; but he’s really awfully³ keen about things.”

 

Faxon looked quickly at the speaker. “Has your uncle a brother?”

 

“Brother? No—never had. He and my mother were the only ones.”

 

“Or any relation who—who looks like him? Who might be mistaken for him?”

 

“Not that I ever heard of. Does he remind you of some one?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s queer. We’ll ask him if he’s got a double. Come on!”

 

But another picture had arrested Faxon, and some minutes elapsed before he and his young host reached the dining-room. It was a large room, with the same conventionally handsome furniture and delicately grouped flowers; and Faxon’s first glance showed him that only three men were seated about the dining-table. The man who had stood behind Mr. Lavington’s chair was not present, and no seat awaited him.

 

When the young men entered, Mr. Grisben was speaking, and his host, who faced the door, sat looking down at his untouched soup-plate and turning the spoon about in his small dry hand.

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