“If you’re not too busy,” I said at length, “you ought to make time to go down to Grancy’s again.” He looked up quickly. “Why?” he asked. “Because he’s quite well again,” I returned with a touch of cruelty. “His wife’s prognostications were mistaken.” Claydon stared at me a moment. “Oh, _she_ knows,” he affirmed with a smile that chilled me. “You mean to leave the portrait as it is then?” I persisted. He shrugged his shoulders. “He hasn’t sent for me yet!” A waiter came up with the cigars and Claydon rose and joined another group. It was just a fortnight later that Grancy’s housekeeper telegraphed for me. She met me at the station with the news that he had been “taken bad” and that the doctors were with him. I had to wait for some time in the deserted library before the medical men appeared. They had the baffled manner of empirics who have been superseded by the great Healer; and I lingered only long enough to hear that Grancy was not suffering and that my presence could do him no harm. I found him seated in his arm-chair in the little study. He held out his hand with a smile. “You see she was right after all,” he said. “She?” I repeated, perplexed for the moment. “My wife.” He indicated the picture. “Of course I knew she had no hope from the first. I saw that”--he lowered his voice--“after Claydon had been here. But I wouldn’t believe it at first!” I caught his hands in mine. “For God’s sake don’t believe it now!” I adjured him. He shook his head gently. “It’s too late,” he said. “I might have known that she knew.” “But, Grancy, listen to me,” I began; and then I stopped. What could I say that would convince him? There was no common ground of argument on which we could meet; and after all it would be easier for him to die feeling that she _had_ known. Strangely enough, I saw that Claydon had missed his mark.... V Grancy’s will named me as one of his executors; and my associate, having other duties on his hands, begged me to assume the task of carrying out our friend’s wishes. This placed me under the necessity of informing Claydon that the portrait of Mrs. Grancy had been bequeathed to him; and he replied by the next post that he would send for the picture at once. I was staying in the deserted house when the portrait was taken away; and as the door closed on it I felt that Grancy’s presence had vanished too. Was it his turn to follow her now, and could one ghost haunt another? After that, for a year or two, I heard nothing more of the picture, and though I met Claydon from time to time we had little to say to each other. I had no definable grievance against the man and I tried to remember that he had done a fine thing in sacrificing his best picture to a friend; but my resentment had all the tenacity of unreason.