purpose to see it some years ago, when he left a certificate (which was
scarcely necessary) of its undoubted authenticity. I was so touched by
his genuine admiration, that I presented him with a small Dutch picture
which he admired in the smoking-room, and thought not unworthy of placing
in the Berlin Gallery. I expect you know Dr. Bode."

"Not personally," I said, as we stepped into the Long Gallery.

It was a delightful panelled room, with oak-beamed ceiling. Between the
mullioned windows were old Venetian mirrors and seventeenth-century
chairs. At the end, concealed by a rich crimson brocade, hung the
Vandyck, the only picture on the walls.

It was the Colonel himself who drew aside the curtain which veiled
discreetly the famous picture of Sir Rupert Brodie at the age of thirty-
two, in the beautiful costume of the period. The face was unusually
pallid; it was just the sort of portrait you would expect to walk out of
its frame.

"You have never seen a finer Vandyck, I am sure," said Mrs. Brodie,
anxiously. I examined the work with great care, employing a powerful
pocket-glass. There was an awkward pause for about five minutes.

"Well, sir," said the Colonel, sternly, "have you nothing to say?"

"It is a very interesting and excellent work, though _not_ by Vandyck; it
is by Jamieson, his Scotch pupil; the morphic forms . . ."--but I got no
further. There was a loud clap of thunder, and Flora fainted away. I
was hastening to her side when her father's powerful arm seized my
collar. He ran me down the gallery and out by an egress which led into