There was reverence and quick admiration in every feature as he bowed and exclaimed with a long sigh: "Rembrandt! Rembrandt! God!--to paint like that!" The emotions of this remarkable young man came and went with the quickness of his eye. While still in the act of outpouring his admiration he whipped from the tail of his dress coat a flat fold of a dozen or more sheets of wrapping paper, shook them out and laid them on the lid of the chest. With another swift gesture he produced a knife, sprang the thin gleaming blade and walked up to the Rembrandt. He raised the knife to the canvas with the ease of a practiced hand, when he heard a movement behind him, and turned his head. Travers Gladwin had stepped from the sheltering screen of portières and stopped abruptly. Whatever shock this sudden apparition of a uniformed policeman was to the man caught in the act of cutting a priceless canvas from its frame he managed to conceal by taking tight grip of every muscle in his body. His eyes revealed nothing. There was no rush of color to or from his face. His first change of expression was to smile. Dropping the arm that poised the knife, he let himself down easily from tiptoe and turned squarely to Gladwin. "Good evening, Officer," he said without a tremor, showing his teeth in as engaging a smile as Travers Gladwin had ever looked upon. "Evenin'!" said Gladwin, shortly, with an admirable affectation of Phelan's brogue. "Do you find something on the balcony that interests you?" said the other slowly, still holding his smile and his amazingly confident bearing. "You climbed up there to enjoy the moonlight, perhaps?" he added, even more softly, gaining reassurance from the wooden expression that Gladwin had forced upon his features. "No, not the moonlight," responded the uniformed similitude of Officer 666, "the other light. I seen 'em go on. This house has been closed for months." "Oh, yes, to be sure," the other shrugged. "You're most alert, Officer--right on the job, as they say. I congratulate you." "I've been watching this house ever since Mr. Gladwin went away," said Gladwin slowly, unable to make up his mind whether to call Phelan or to continue the intensely interesting dialogue. His visitor decided the situation for him by coolly lighting a cigar, taking a few deliberate puffs and turning it over in his fingers to inspect it as if it were the only object worth attention in the room. Gladwin read this elaborate by-play for what it was worth--an effort to decide just how best to play his part--and was pleasantly thrilled with the realization that he himself was so well disguised in the uniform of Officer 666. So he clung to his own rôle and forgot Michael Phelan. "H'm," said the invader, reflectively. "That's very good of you, Officer. Let me offer you this as a slight token of my appreciation."