“I haven’t been West, and haven’t been devoting myself to amusement with any sort of exclusiveness, I assure you. In fact, to merely live, an artist has got to work, not play.” “Artist!” said Hawkins to himself, thinking of the rifled bank; “that _is_ a name for it!” “Are _you_ an artist?” asked the colonel; and added to himself, “_now_ I’m going to catch him.” “In a humble way, yes.” “What line?” pursued the sly veteran. “Oils.” “I’ve got him!” said Sellers to himself. Then aloud, “This is fortunate. Could I engage you to restore some of my paintings that need that attention?” “I shall be very glad. Pray let me see them.” No shuffling, no evasion, no embarrassment, even under this crucial test. The Colonel was nonplussed. He led Tracy to a chromo which had suffered damage in a former owner’s hands through being used as a lamp mat, and said, with a flourish of his hand toward the picture— “This del Sarto—” “Is _that_ a del Sarto?” The colonel bent a look of reproach upon Tracy, allowed it to sink home, then resumed as if there had been no interruption— “This del Sarto is perhaps the only original of that sublime master in our country. You see, yourself, that the work is of such exceeding delicacy that the risk—could—er—would you mind giving me a little example of what you can do before we—” “Cheerfully, cheerfully. I will copy one of these marvels.” Water-color materials—relics of Miss Sally’s college life—were brought. Tracy said he was better in oils, but would take a chance with these. So he was left alone. He began his work, but the attractions of the place were too strong for him, and he got up and went drifting about, fascinated; also amazed. CHAPTER XIX. Meantime the earl and Hawkins were holding a troubled and anxious private consultation. The earl said: “The mystery that bothers me, is, where did It get its other arm?” “Yes—it worries me, too. And another thing troubles me—the apparition is English. How do you account for that, Colonel?” “Honestly, I don’t know, Hawkins, I don’t really know. It is very confusing and awful.” “Don’t you think maybe we’ve waked up the wrong one?” “The wrong one? How do you account for the clothes?” “The clothes _are_ right, there’s no getting around it. What are we going to do? We can’t collect, as I see. The reward is for a one-armed American. This is a two-armed Englishman.” “Well, it may be that that is not objectionable. You see it isn’t _less_ than is called for, it is _more_, and so,—” But he saw that this argument was weak, and dropped it. The friends sat brooding over their perplexities some time in silence. Finally the earl’s face began to glow with an inspiration, and he said, impressively: