“I—er—well, I was thinking of the portrait.” Michael turned and indicated the picture above the fireplace, and in a sense he spoke the truth, for the thread of that thought had run through all others. “The face seemed familiar,” he said, “which is absurd, because it is obviously an old painting.” Mr. Longvale lit two candles and carried one to the portrait. Again Michael looked, and again the majesty of the face impressed him. “That is my great-great-uncle, Charles Henry,” said old Mr. Longvale with pride. “Or, as we call him affectionately in our family, the Great Monsieur.” Michael’s face was half-turned toward the window as the old man spoke. . . . Suddenly the room seemed to spin before his eyes. Jack Knebworth saw his face go white and caught him by the arm. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Nothing,” said Michael unsteadily. Knebworth was staring past him at the window. “What was that?” he said. With the exception of the illumination from the two candles and the faint dusk light that came from the garden, the room was in darkness. “Did you see it?” he asked, and ran to the window, staring out. “What was it?” asked old Mr. Longvale, joining him. “I could have sworn I saw a head in the window. Did you see it, Brixan?” “I saw something,” said Michael unsteadily. “Do you mind if I go out into the garden?” “I hoped you saw it. It looked like a monkey’s head to me.” Michael nodded. He walked down the flagged passage into the garden, and, as he did so, slipped a Browning from his hip, pressed down the safety-catch, and dropped the pistol into his jacket pocket. He disappeared, and five minutes later Knebworth saw him pacing the garden path, and went out to him. “Did you see anything?” “Nothing in the garden. You must have been mistaken.” “But didn’t you see him?” Michael hesitated. “I thought I saw something,” he said with an assumption of carelessness. “When are you going to shoot those night pictures of yours?” “You saw something, Brixan—was it a face?” Mike Brixan nodded. CHAPTER X THE OPEN WINDOW THE dynamo wagon was humming as he walked down the garden path, and with a hiss and a splutter from the arcs, the front of the cottage was suddenly illuminated by their fierce light. Outside on the road a motorist had pulled up to look upon the unusual spectacle. “What is happening?” he asked curiously. “They’re taking a picture,” said Michael. “Oh, is that what it is? I suppose it is one of Knebworth’s outfits?” “Where are you going?” demanded Michael suddenly. “Forgive my asking you, but if you’re heading for Chichester you can render me a very great service if you give me a lift.” “Jump in,” said the man. “I’m going to Petworth, but it will not be much out of my way to take you into the city.”