“_Stole_ it!” “Exactly.” “But when?” “I missed it just after you had gone. In fact, Jack, I thought at the time you had borrowed it to have a copy made.” “Good heavens, no! She didn’t want me to have it.” “Then the mystery remains a mystery.” “It’s so objectless!” cried Jack. “A photograph like that is just good fun amongst friends, but one doesn’t want the million readers of the _Planet_ to see it. This defeats me! Have you rung up the office?” “Yes. I could get no satisfaction. I am going along to the Modern Gallery now.” “I’ll come with you!” said Jack. CHAPTER XXIII. FIASCO A curious episode marked our arrival at the gallery. On the opposite side of Bond Street, you may recall that there is a block of offices and showrooms, occupied by beauty specialists, modistes, and others. Well, at the entrance to the gallery, where an announcement stated that an exhibition of modern drawings and art photographs was being held in aid of, etc., we bumped into one of Nanette’s Madeira conquests. “Hallo, Milton!” said I. The young man, who had been leaning against the doorway and staring abstractedly across the street, became galvanized into sudden action. He gave a swift look at me, a second look at Jack, and then: “Hallo, Decies,” he returned in an oddly guilty way. Immediately he stared across the street again. At which moment came a cry from Jack. “Gad! There’s Nanette!” “Where?” I asked. “In that window, on the first floor there. She has seen us, I think.” I followed the direction of his gaze. The window indicated belonged to an expert organizer of female hair. An attractive wax bust was visible but no Nanette. I turned to Milton. “_Is_ Nanette there?” I asked. “I couldn’t say,” he replied evasively. Jack gave him a venomous glance and started across the street. “We can see for ourselves,” he snapped. I looked inquiringly at the young man in the doorway, but he returned my regard with so high a challenge that I wondered, checked the words on my tongue, and followed Jack. We mounted the stairway to the first landing, and Jack threw open a door bearing the simple legend “Pierre” with quite unnecessary violence. We found ourselves in a discreet waiting room delicately perfumed. A stout French gentleman, whose wavy gleaming locks were a credit to his professional acquirements, greeted us. He bowed. “I have called for a lady who is here,” said Jack. “Please tell her Mr. Decies and Mr. Kelton.” “But there is some mistake,” Pierre replied--assuming that this was none other than the maestro in person. “No one is here at the moment--unless you mean Mlle. Justine, my assistant.” He raised his voice. “Justine!” A trim figure in white appeared at the door of an inner sanctuary sacred to hair. “M’sieur?” said Justine, and bestowed upon us a swift glance of roguish dark eyes. “You are alone?” “Yes, m’sieur. I am waiting for Lady Rickaby whose appointment is at three.” She bit her lip, suppressing a smile, and disappeared.