He showed them into a narrow room that ran from the front to the back of the house. Its ceilings were supported by black rafters; the open wainscoting, polished and worn by generations of hands, must have been at least five hundred years old. There were no swords over this mantelpiece, thought Michael with an inward smile. Instead, there was a portrait of a handsome old gentleman, the dignity of whose face was arresting. There was only one word with an adequate description: it was majestic. He made no comment on the picture, nor did the old man speak of it till later. The meal was hastily disposed of, and, sitting on the wall, Michael watched the last daylight scene shot, and was struck by the plastic genius of the girl. He knew enough of motion pictures and their construction to realize what it meant to the director to have in his hands one who could so faithfully reproduce the movements and the emotions which the old man dictated. In other circumstances he might have thought it grotesque to see Jack Knebworth pretending to be a young girl, resting his elderly cheek coyly upon the back of his clasped hand, and walking with mincing steps from one side of the picture to the other. But he knew that the American was a mason who was cutting roughly the shape of the sculpture and leaving it to the finer artiste to express in her personality the delicate contours that would delight the eye of the picture-loving world. She was no longer Adele Leamington; she was Roselle, the heiress to an estate of which her wicked cousin was trying to deprive her. The story itself he recognized; a half-and-half plagiarism of “The Cat and the Canary,” with which were blended certain situations from “The Miracle Man.” He mentioned this fact when the scene was finished. “I guess it’s a steal,” said Jack Knebworth philosophically, “and I didn’t inquire too closely into it. It’s Foss’s story, and I should be pained to discover there was anything original in it.” Mr. Foss had made a tardy reappearance, and Michael found himself wondering what was the nature of that confidential interview which the writer had had with Sir Gregory. Going back to the long sitting-room, he stood watching the daylight fade and speculating upon the one mystery within a mystery—the extraordinary effect which Adele had produced upon him. Mike Brixan had known many beautiful women, women in every class of society. He had known the best and the worst, he had jailed a few, and had watched one face a French firing squad one grey wintry morning at Vincennes. He had liked many, nearly loved one, and it seemed, cold-bloodedly analysing his emotions, that he was in danger of actually loving a girl whom he had never met before that morning. “Which is absurd,” he said aloud. “What is absurd?” asked Knebworth, who had come into the room unnoticed. “I also wondered what you were thinking,” smiled old Mr. Longvale, who had been watching the young man in silence.