They went without further ceremony. As they walked through the hall and down the corridors side by side, an imaginative person might have felt that perhaps the eyes of an ancient, darkling portrait or so looked down at the pair curiously: the long, loosely built New Yorker rather slouching along by the soldierly almost romantic figure which in a measure suggested that others not unlike it might have trod the same oaken floor, wearing ruff and doublet, or lace jabot and sword. There was a far cry between the two, but they walked closely in friendly union. When they entered the picture-gallery, Strangeways paused a moment again, and stood peering down its length. “It is very dimly lighted. How can we see?” he said. “I told Pearson to leave it dim,” Tembarom answered. He tried, and succeeded tolerably well, to say it casually as he led the way ahead of them. He and the duke had not talked the scheme over for nothing. As his grace had said, they had “worked the thing up.” As they moved down the gallery, the men and women in their frames looked like ghosts staring out to see what was about to happen. “We’ll turn up the lights after a while,” T. Tembarom explained still casually. “There’s a picture here I think a good deal of. I’ve stood and looked at it pretty often. It reminded me of someone the first day I set eyes on it; but it was quite a time before I made up my mind who it was. It used to drive me half dotty trying to think it out.” “Which one?” asked Strangeways. “We’re coming to it. I want to see if it reminds you of any one. And I want you to see it sudden.” “It’s got to be sudden,” he had said to the duke. “If it’s going to pan out, I believe it’s got to be sudden. When he first sees that picture he’s _got_ to get a jolt--he’s got to.” That was why Tembarom had the lights left dim. He had told Pearson to leave a lamp that he could turn up quickly. The lamp was on a table near by and was shaded by a screen. He took it from the shadow and lifted it suddenly, so that its full gleam fell upon the portrait of the handsome youth with the lace collar and the dark, drooping eyes. It was done in a second, with a dramatically unexpected swiftness. His heart fairly thumped. “Who’s that?” he demanded, with abruptness so sharp-pitched that the gallery echoed with the sound. “Who’s that?” He heard a hard, quick gasp, a sound which was momentarily a little horrible, as if the man’s soul was being jerked out of his body’s depths. “Who is he?” Tembarom cried again. “Tell me!” After the gasp, Strangeways stood still and stared. His eyes were glued to the canvas, drops of sweat came out on his forehead, and he was shuddering. He began to back away with a look of gruesome struggle. He backed and backed, and stared and stared. The gasp came twice again, and then his voice seemed to tear itself loose from some power that was holding it back. “Th--at!” he cried. “It is--it--is Miles Hugo!”