was merely a resultant accident with which he was not especially concerned. Understand?"
"Yes, I think so," I said. "It's a good deal as though Michael Angelo, when he made one of his sketches, white on black, put a sheet of carbon under his paper and made a copy at the same time, black on white."
"Precisely. And it's the original which has the real artistic value. Of course, the counterpart is often beautiful, too, but in a much lower degree."
"I can understand that," I said.
"And now, Lester," Vantine went on, his eyes shining more and more, "if my supposition is correct—if the Grand Louis was content with the counterpart of this cabinet for the long gallery at Versailles, who do you suppose owned the original?"
I saw what he was driving at.
"You mean one of his mistresses?"
"Yes, and I think I know which one—it belonged to Madame de
Montespan."
I stared at him in astonishment, as he sat back in his chair, smiling across at me.
"But," I objected, "you can't be sure—"
"Of course I'm not sure," he agreed quickly. "That is to say, I couldn't prove it. But there is some—ah—contributory evidence, I think you lawyers call it Boule and the Montespan were in their glory at the same time, and I can imagine that flamboyant creature commissioning the flamboyant artist to build her just such a cabinet."
"Really, Vantine," I exclaimed, "I didn't know you were so romantic.
You quite take my breath away."
He flushed a little at the words, and I saw how deeply in earnest he was.
"The craze of the collector takes him a long way sometimes," he said. "But I believe I know what I'm talking about. I am going to make a careful examination of the cabinet as soon as I can. Perhaps I'll find something—there ought to be a monogram on it somewhere. What I want you to do is to cable my shippers, Armand et Fils, Rue du Temple, find out who owns this cabinet, and buy it for me."
"Perhaps the owner won't sell," I suggested.
"Oh yes, he will. Anything can be bought—for a price."
"You mean you're going to have this cabinet, whatever the cost?"
"I mean just that."
"But, surely, there's a limit."
"No, there isn't."
"At least you'll tell me where to begin," I said. "I don't know anything of the value of such things."
"Well," said Vantine, "suppose you begin at ten thousand francs. We mustn't seem too eager. It's because I'm so eager, I want you to carry it through for me. I can't trust myself."
"And the other end?"
"There isn't any other end. Of course, strictly speaking, there is, because my money isn't unlimited; but I don't believe you will have to go over five hundred thousand francs."
I gasped.
"You mean you're willing to give a hundred thousand dollars for this cabinet?"
Vantine nodded.
"Maybe a little more. If the owner won't accept that, you must let me know before you break off negotiations. I'm a little mad about it, I fancy—all collectors are a little mad. But I want that cabinet, and I'm going to have it."
I did not reply. I only looked at him. And he laughed as he caught my glance.
"I can see you share that opinion, Lester," he said. "You fear for me. I don't blame you—but come and see it."
He led the way out of the room and down the stairs; but when we reached the lower hall, he paused.
"Perhaps I'd better see my visitor first," he said. "You'll find a new picture or two over there in the music-room—I'll be with you in a minute."
I started on, and he turned through a doorway at the left.
An instant later, I heard a sharp exclamation; then his voice calling me.
"Lester! Come here!" he cried.
I ran back along the hall, into the room which he had entered. He was standing just inside the door.
"Look there," he said, with a queer catch in his voice, and pointed with a trembling hand to a dark object on the floor.
I moved aside to see it better. Then my heart gave a sickening throb; for the object on the floor was the body of a man.
CHAPTER II
THE FIRST TRAGEDY
It needed but a glance to tell me that the man was dead. There could be no life in that livid face, in those glassy eyes.
"Don't touch him," I said, for Vantine had started forward. "It's too late."
I drew him back, and we stood for a moment shaken as one always is by sudden and unexpected contact with death.
"Who is he?" I asked, at last.
"I don't know," answered Vantine hoarsely. "I never saw him before." Then he strode to the bell and rang it violently. "Parks," he went on sternly, as that worthy appeared at the door, "what has been going on in here?"
"Going on, sir?" repeated Parks, with a look of amazement, not only at the words, but at the tone in which they were uttered. "I'm sure I don't know what—"
Then his glance fell upon the huddled body, and he stopped short, his eyes staring, his mouth open.
"Well," said his master, sharply. "Who is he? What is he doing here?"
"Why—why," stammered Parks, thickly, "that's the man who was waiting to see you, sir."
"You mean he has been killed in this house?" demanded Vantine.
"He was certainly alive when he came in, sir," said Parks, recovering something of his self-possession. "Maybe he was just looking for a quiet place where he could kill himself. He seemed kind of excited."
"Of course," agreed Vantine, with a sigh of relief, "that's the explanation. Only I wish he had chosen some place else. I suppose we shall have to call the police, Lester?"
"Yes," I said, "and the coroner. Suppose you leave it to me. We'll lock up this room, and nobody must leave the house until the police arrive."
"Very well," assented Vantine, visibly relieved, "I'll see to that," and he hastened away, while I went to the 'phone, called up police headquarters, and told briefly what had happened.
