“And the bust. If it is not asking an impertinent question, where is it coming from?” “Paris.” “Ah!” “By the way.” “Yes.” “Have you ever heard of an artist and sculptor, named Wilhelm Müller?” “Wilhelm Müller, a sculptor?” “Yes.” “Murdered eight years ago?” “Yes.” “By a M.—” “Lefarge.” “Yes, yes, that is the name. Oh, yes, I remember Müller. I only saw him once about nine years ago; I clearly recollect him for the fact of his murder, which I read of in the papers shortly after impressed our meeting upon me. It was at the _chat noir_. Oh, yes, I remember Wilhelm Müller very well indeed.” “You are a judge of men.” “I am a judge of art primarily, modern man is mainly a production of art, not of nature; yes, I am a judge of men.” “What was your opinion of Müller?” “You know my fee for examining and giving my opinion on works of art.” “Yes, here, take a cigar and give me your opinion on Müller.” “As a work of art or nature?” “You said modern man was a work of art.” “I said, mainly a work of art, there is a strong substratum of nature in some men.” “Well I want your opinion on Müller, both as a work of art and a work of nature; cast some light on him for me out of your intelligence.” “Give me a match.” “There you are.” “Thank you. As an artistic production, Müller was not so bad, for he managed fairly well to conceal from his fellow-men what nature had made him?” “And what had nature made him?” “A madman.” “A madman?” “Yes, and yet he was sane.” “That sounds like a paradox.” “Man is a paradox. I know twenty men in London who are as mad as hatters, yet they are sane for all practical purposes.” “Could you fancy Müller committing a murder?” “Easily. He was of the intellectual criminal type.” “Yet he was a great artist.” “Though I have never seen any of his work—” “Pardon me, you have, for that bust of Sir Anthony Gyde’s was, I believe, from his chisel.” “Though I had never seen any of his work, judging from my recollection of the man, I would say he was a great genius. He had the brilliancy of eye, the concentration of gaze, which one rarely meets with in common-place people, and yet those eyes would, so to speak, fall apart, the concentration relax, the gaze become turned inward. Then it was that the essential madness of the man became visible to the man who could see. How many men of your acquaintance can see, Mr Freyberger?” Freyberger laughed and turned to leave the shop. “Well,” he said, “seven-thirty at the Langham. Be sure you are there and ask for Mademoiselle Lefarge.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXVI AT seven o’clock precisely, Freyberger drove up to the Langham. Mademoiselle Lefarge had given instructions that anyone who called was to be shown up. Freyberger followed a waiter up the softly carpeted stairs; at the door of a room on the first landing the man stopped. “Whom shall I say, sir?”