Lord Lavendale came presently to the alcove. It was curtained off at times from the rest of the room by a fine old piece of Indian embroidery, a thick and heavy fabric in which gems of all kinds were embedded upon a ground of silken brocade mingled with a curious golden tissue. Lavendale and Durnford admired the curtain, which was drawn back to about a third of the opening, and then his lordship's quick glance lighted on the old oak cabinet. "It is a shrine," he cried, "the back portion of an old Dutch altar, I take it, with some rare old picture for the reredos. That central panel is a door with a picture behind it. Did you ever see finer carving?" "These doors are magnificent," said Durnford, looking at the two outer doors which had been flung back. "Yes, the carving there is bold and spirited, but this is finer work. Here is the story of the Nativity, and the four kings with their offerings--the manger and the three beasts. You remember the old legend--how the ass brayed _eamus_, and the ox answered in his deep bass roar, _ubi_, and the lamb ba-ad 'Bethlehem.' Yes, here is the Virgin, and the humble cradle of Divinity." "Let us see the picture behind the panel, if there is one. A Vandyke, perhaps," suggested Durnford. "Look, there is a key." He pointed to a very small key in the outer moulding which framed the storied panel. Lavendale turned the key and drew back the door. "My God!" cried Durnford; "Irene's portrait!" It was no Vandyke--no sad and solemn picture of the Crucifixion, or the Descent from the Cross, no pale divine head with its coronal of thorns. It was only a woman's face, beautiful exceedingly, with golden-brown hair, and dark violet eyes under black lashes; a pale, sweet, almost perfect face, and the image of Irene Bosworth. And yet it was not Irene's portrait. A more deliberate inspection showed points of difference in the two faces. There was a startling resemblance, but not identity. "What, you have discovered another of my secret treasures?" asked a soft and legato voice at Lavendale's elbow. It was Mr. Topsparkle, who had reëntered the room so quietly that neither of his guests had been aware of his approach. He was paler than usual under his paint, and had a somewhat troubled air, Durnford thought; but if he were vexed at finding them before the hidden picture, he gave no utterance to his vexation. "A very beautiful head and very tolerably painted, eh, gentlemen?" he asked lightly. "A lovely head and very finely painted," replied Lavendale; "but there is something that strikes me more forcibly than the beauty of the face or the skill of the painter." He looked fixedly at Mr. Topsparkle as he spoke. "Indeed! And pray what is that?" "Can't you guess?" "No, upon my honour." "The very remarkable likeness between that head and Mrs. Irene Bosworth."