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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 there, and to keep the place free from prying visitors a large number of savage dogs are allowed to prowl about the grounds.”
Bell listened eagerly. Watching him, David could see that his eyes glinted like points of steel. There was something subtle behind all this common-place that touched the imagination of the novelist.
“Has 218 been let during the occupation of the present owner?” Bell asked.
“No,” the agent replied. “But the present owner—as heir to the property—I am told, was interested in both 218 and 219, which used to be a kind of high-class convalescent home for poor clergy and the widows and daughters of poor clergy in want of a holiday. The one house was for the men and the other for the women, and both were furnished exactly alike; in fact, Mr. Gates’s landlord, the tenant of 219, bought the furniture exactly as it stands when the scheme fell through.”
Steel looked up swiftly. A sudden inspiration came to him.
“In that case what became of the precisely similar furniture in 218?” he asked.
“That I cannot tell you,” the agent said. “That house was let as it stood to some sham philanthropist whose name I forget. The whole thing was a fraud, and the swindler only avoided arrest by leaving the country. Probably the goods were stored somewhere or perhaps seized by some creditor. But I really can’t say definitely without looking the matter up. There are some books and prints now left in the house out of the wreck. We shall probably put them in a sale, only they have been overlooked. The whole lot will not fetch £5.”
“Would you take £5 for them?” Bell asked.
“Gladly. Even if only to get them carted away.”
Bell gravely produced a £5 note, for which he asked and received a receipt. Then he and Steel repaired to 218 once more, whence they recovered the Rembrandt, and subsequently returned the keys of the house to the agent. There was an air of repressed excitement about Bell which was not without its effect upon his companion. The cold, hard lines seemed to have faded from Bell’s face; there was a brightness about him that added to his already fine physical beauty.
“And now, perhaps, you will be good enough to explain,” David suggested.
“My dear fellow, it would take too long,” Bell cried. “Presently I am going to tell you the story of the tragedy of my life. You have doubtless wondered, as others have wondered, why I dropped out of the road when the goal was in sight. Well, your curiosity is about to be gratified. I am going to help you, and in return you are going to help me to come back into the race again. By way of a start, you are going to ask me to come and dine with you to-night.”
“At half-past seven, then. Nothing will give me greater pleasure.”
“Spoken like a man and a brother. We will dine, and I will tell you my story after the house is quiet. And if I ask you to accompany me on a midnight adventure you will not say me nay?”
“Not in my present mood, at any rate. Adventure, with a dash of danger in it, suits my present mood exactly. And if there is to be physical violence, so much the better. My diplomacy may be weak, but physically I am not to be despised in a row.”
“Well, we’ll try and avoid the latter, if possible,” Bell laughed. “Still, for your satisfaction, I may say there is just the chance of a scrimmage. And now I really must go, because I have any amount of work to do for Gates. Till half-past seven, au revoir.”
Steel lighted a cigarette and strolled thoughtfully homewards along the front. The more he thought over the mystery the more tangled it became. And yet he felt perfectly sure that he was on the right track. The discovery that both those houses had been furnished exactly alike at one time was a most important one. And David no longer believed that he had been to No. 219 on the night of the great adventure. Then he found himself thinking about Ruth Gates’s gentle face and lovely eyes, until he looked up and saw the girl before him.
“You—you wanted to speak to me?” he stammered.