Half an hour later he entered the spacious lobby of Victor Mahr's
ostentatious dwelling.

"Mr. Mahr is expecting you, sir," said the solemn servant, who conducted
him to a vast anteroom, hung with trophies of armor, and bowed him into
a second room, book-lined and businesslike, evidently the secretary's
private office, deserted now and in some confusion, as if the occupant
had left in haste. The servant crossed to a door opposite, and having
discreetly knocked and announced the distinguished visitor, bowed and
retired. The lackey would have taken Gard's overcoat and hat, but he
retained his hold upon them, as if determined that his stay should be
short.

Mahr rose to greet him, his hand extended. Gard's impedimenta seemed to
preclude the handshake, and the host hastened to insist upon his guest
being relieved.

Gard shook his head. "I have only a moment to inspect your picture,
Mahr," he said coldly.

"Oh, no, don't say that. Have a highball; you will find everything on
the table. What can I give you? This Scotch is excellent."

"No," said Gard sternly. "Excuse me; I am here for one purpose."

Mahr was chagrined, but switched on the electric lights above the canvas
occupying the place of honor on the crowded wall. The portrait stood
revealed, a jewel of color, rich as a ruby, mysterious as an autumn
night, vivid in its humanity, divine in its art, palpitating with life,