“My dear, he found it out. At least, Hatherly Bell did for him. Hatherly Bell happened to be staying down with us, and Hatherly Bell, who knows Mr. Steel, promptly solved, or half solved, that side of the problem. And Hatherly Bell is coming here to-night to see Aunt Margaret. He—”
“Here!” Enid cried. “To see Aunt Margaret? Then he found out about you. At all hazards Mr. Bell must not come here—he must not. I would rather let everything go than that. I would rather see auntie dead and Reginald Henson master here. You must—”
In the distance came the rattle of harness bells and the trot of a horse.
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” Ruth Gates said, sadly. “I am afraid that they are here already. Oh, if we had only left out that wretched cigar-case!”
XI. AFTER REMBRANDT
“Before we go any farther,” Bell said, after a long pause, “I should like to search the house from top to bottom. I’ve got a pretty sound theory in my head, but I don’t like to leave anything to chance. We shall be pretty certain to find something.”
“I am entirely in your hands,” David said, wearily. “So far as I am capable of thinking out anything, it seems to me that we have to find the woman.”
“Cherchez la femme is a fairly sound premise in a case like this, but when we have found the woman we shall have to find the man who is at the bottom of the plot. I mean the man who is not only thwarting the woman, but giving you a pretty severe lesson as to the advisability of minding your own business for the future.”
“Then you don’t think I am being made the victim of a vile conspiracy?”
“Not by the woman, certainly. You are the victim of some fiendish counterplot by the man, who has not quite mastered what the woman is driving at. By placing you in dire peril he compels the woman to speak to save you, and thus to expose her hand.”
“Then in that case I propose to sit tight,” David said, grimly. “I am bound to be prosecuted for robbery and attempted murder in due course. If my man dies I am in a tight place.”
“And if he recovers your antagonist may be in a tighter,” Bell chuckled. “And if the man gets well and that brain injury proves permanent—I mean if the man is rendered imbecile—why, we are only at the very threshold of the mystery. It seems a callous thing to say, but this is the prettiest problem I have had under my hands.”
“Make the most of it,” David said, sardonically. “I daresay I should see the matter in a more rational light if I were not so directly concerned. But, if we are going to make a search of the premises, the sooner we start the better.”
Upstairs there was nothing beyond certain lumber. There were dust and dirt everywhere, save in the hall and front dining-room, which, as Bell sapiently pointed out, had obviously been cleared to make ready for Steel’s strange reception. Down in the housekeeper’s room was a large collection of dusty furniture, and a number of pictures and engravings piled with their faces to the wall. Bell began idly to turn the latter over.
“I am a maniac on the subject of old prints,” he explained. “I never see a pile without a wild longing to examine them. And, by Jove, there are some good things here. Unless I am greatly mistaken—here, Steel, pull up the blinds! Good heavens, is it possible?”
“Found a Sistine Madonna or a stray Angelo?” David asked. “Or a ghost? What is the matter? Is it another phase of the mystery?”
“The Rembrandt,” Bell gasped. “Look at it, man!”
Steel bent eagerly over the engraving. An old print, an old piece of china, an antique jewel, always exercised a charm over the novelist. He had an unerring eye for that kind of thing.
“Exquisite,” he cried. “A Rembrandt, of course, but I don’t recollect the picture.”
“The picture was destroyed by accident after Rembrandt had engraved it with his own hand,” Bell proceeded to explain. He was quite coherent now, but he breathed fast and loud, “I shall proceed to give you the history of the picture presently, and more especially a history of the engraving.”
“Has it any particular name?” David asked.
“Yes, we found that out. It was called ‘The Crimson Blind!’”
“No getting away from the crimson blind,” David murmured. “Still, I can quite imagine that to have been the name of the picture. That shutter or blind might have had a setting sun behind it, which would account for the tender warmth of the kitchen foreground and the deep gloom where the lovers are seated. By Jove, Bell, it is a magnificent piece of work. I’ve a special fancy for Rembrandt engravings, but I never saw one equal to that.”
“And you never will,” Bell replied, “save in one instance. The picture itself was painted in Rembrandt’s modest lodging in the Keizerskroon Tavern after the forced sale of his paintings at that hostel in the year 1658. At that time Rembrandt was painfully poor, as his recorded tavern bills show. The same bills also disclose the fact that ‘The Crimson Blind’ was painted for a private customer with a condition that the subject should be engraved as well. After one impression had been taken off the plate the picture was destroyed by a careless servant. In a sudden fit of rage Rembrandt destroyed the plate, having, they say, only taken one impression from it.”
“Then there is only one of these engravings in the world? What a find!”
“There is one other, as I know to my cost,” Bell said, significantly. “Until a few days ago I never entertained the idea that there were two. Steel, you are the victim of a vile conspiracy, but it is nothing to the conspiracy which has darkened my life.”
“Sooner or later I always felt that I should get to the bottom of the mystery, and now I am certain of it. And, strange as it may seem, I verily believe that you and I are hunting the same man down—that the one man is at the bottom of the two evils. But you shall hear my story presently. What we have to find out now is who was the last tenant and who is the present owner of the house, and incidentally learn who this lumber belongs to. Ah, this has been a great day for me!”
Bell spoke exultingly, a great light shining in his eyes. And David sapiently asked no further questions for the present. All that he wanted to know would come in time. The next move, of course, was to visit the agent of the property.
A smart, dapper little man, looking absurdly out of place in an exceedingly spacious office, was quite ready to give every information. It was certainly true that 218, Brunswick Square, was to be let at an exceedingly low rent on a repairing lease, and that the owner had a lot more property in Brighton to be let on the same terms. The lady was exceedingly rich and eccentric; indeed, by asking such low rents she was doing her best to seriously diminish her income.
“Do you know the lady at all?” Bell asked.
“Not personally,” the agent admitted. “So far as I can tell, the property came into the present owner’s hands some years ago by inheritance. The property also included a very old house, called Longdean Grange, not far from Rottingdean, where the lady, Mrs. Henson, lives at present. Nobody ever goes there, nobody ever visits
