He was an authority on Romney, and was inclined to be garrulous. He talked to all the attendants, and seemed prepared to give a long-winded account of his experience, his artistic training, and the excellence of his quality as an art critic--which meant that he was the type of bore that most attendants have to deal with, and they very gladly cut short his monotonous conversation, and showed him the way to the picture gallery. “Was he alone in the room?” asked Peter. “Yes, sir.” “And nobody went in with him?” “No, sir.” Peter nodded. “Of course, the garrulity may have been intentional, and it may have been designed to scare away attendants, but go on.” “The man went into the room, and was seen standing before the Romney in rapt contemplation. The attendants who saw him swore that at that time the Romney was in its frame. It hung on the level with the eyes; that is to say the top of the frame was about seven feet from the floor. “Almost immediately after the attendants had looked in the old man came out talking to himself about the beauty of the execution. As he left the room, and came into the outer lobby, a little girl entered and also asked permission to go into the gallery. She signed her name ‘Ellen Cole’ in the visitors’ book.” “What was she like?” said Peter. “Oh, just a child,” said the attendant vaguely, “a little girl.” Apparently the little girl walked into the saloon as the old man came out--he turned and looked at her, and then went on through the lobby, and out through the door. But before he got to the door, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and with it came about half a dozen silver coins, which were scattered on the marble floor of the vestibule. The attendants helped him to collect the money--he thanked them, his mind still with the picture apparently, for he was talking to himself all the time, and finally disappeared. He had hardly left the house when the little girl came out and asked: “Which is the Romney picture?” “In the centre of the room,” they told her, “immediately facing the door.” “But there’s not a picture there,” she said, “there’s only an empty frame, and a funny kind of little black label with four squares.” The attendants dashed into the room, and sure enough the picture had disappeared! In the space where it had been, or rather on the wall behind the place, was the sign of Four Square Jane. The attendants apparently did not lose their heads. One went straight to the telephone, and called up the nearest police station--the second went on in search of the old man. But all attempts to discover him proved futile. The constable on point duty at the corner of Berkeley Square had seen him get into a taxi-cab and drive away, but had not troubled to notice the number of the taxi-cab. “And what happened to the little girl?” asked Peter.