His prediction was verified--it was hung. It was the first of Mr. Lovell's pictures which ever had been hung--which made the fact none the less gratifying to Mr. Lovell. It was hung very well, too, considering. And it attracted quite a considerable amount of attention in its way. It was _sold_ on the opening day. That fact was not displeasing to Mr. Lovell. One morning, about the middle of June, a card was brought in to Mr. Lovell, while he was working in his studio. On it was inscribed a name--Vicomte d'Humieres. The card was immediately followed by its owner, a tall, slightly built gentleman; unmistakably a foreigner. He saluted Mr. Lovell with a bow which was undoubtedly Parisian. "Mr. Gerald Lovell?" The accent was French, but, for a Frenchman, the English was fair. "I am Gerald Lovell." "Ah! That is good! You are a gentleman, Mr. Lovell, whom I particularly wish to see." The stranger had been carrying his stick in one hand and his hat in the other. These he now deposited upon one chair; himself he placed upon a second--uninvited. He crossed his legs. He folded his black gloved hands in front of him. "I believe, Mr. Lovell, that we are not strangers--you and I." Mr. Lovell glanced at the card which he still was holding. "You are the Vicomte d'Humieres?" "I am." "I am afraid--it is unpardonable remissness on my part; but I am afraid that, if I have ever had the pleasure of meeting you before, it is a pleasure which has escaped my memory." "It is not that we have ever met before--no, it is not that. It is my name to which you are not a stranger." Mr. Lovell glanced again at the card. "Your name? I am afraid, Vicomte, that I do not remember having ever heard your name before." "Ah! Is that so?" The stranger regarded his polished boots. He spoke as if he were addressing himself to them. "Is it possible that she can have given another name? No, it is not possible. She is capable of many things. I do not believe she is capable of that." He looked up again at Mr. Lovell. "My business with you, Mr. Lovell, is of rather a peculiar kind. You will think, perhaps, that mine is rather a singular errand. I have come to ask you to acquaint me with the residence of my wife." "With the--did you say, with the--residence of your wife?" "That is what I said. I have come to ask you to acquaint me with the residence of my wife." The artist stared. "But, so far as I am aware, I do not know your wife." "That is absurd. I do not say, Mr. Lovell, that you are conscious of the absurdity. But still--it is absurd--_I_ was not aware that you were acquainted with my wife until I learned the fact, this morning, at your Academy." "At our Academy?" "Precisely. Upon the walls of your Academy of Painting, Mr. Lovell." Mr. Lovell began to wonder if his visitor was not an amiable French lunatic. "Is that not rather a singular place in which to learn such a fact?"