“Yes, my dear father brought him to our house. My father was so good, so pleasant, so genial, he saw no harm in anyone. If a man were only clever, that was enough for him. Many an artist who is now well-to-do in the world owes everything to the help received from him.” Freyberger had been studying Mademoiselle Lefarge from the first moment of his entering the room. This was no woman of the ordinary type. This was an individual of spirit and sense and intellect, who had been studying the Lefarge case for eight years. He determined to put the whole matter of the Gyde case before her and its connexion with the case of Lefarge. This he did in the space of ten minutes, clearly and concisely and with that precision that never misses a necessary or includes an unnecessary word. “If what you have told me is correct,” said Mademoiselle Lefarge, when he had finished, “it only confirms my belief that Müller by some horrible alchemy, known only to himself, destroyed my father both in body and reputation, just as he has destroyed Sir Anthony Gyde.” “That, too, is my belief,” said Hellier, who had been listening, amazed at the tale of Freyberger, and full of admiration at his process of reasoning. “Now,” said the detective, “have you the bust this man executed of M. Lefarge?” “Yes,” replied Cécile, “I have it in the next room, I brought it with me to-day, hoping it might be of use.” Freyberger looked at her with admiration. “It will be of great use, and I must thank you for bringing it. I would like to see it and to show it to a friend whom I expect here shortly. He is a Greek who has reconstructed the Gyde bust, and his opinion is necessary to me in the case.” Mademoiselle Lefarge passed into an adjoining room, from which she presently emerged, carrying something in her arms; something wrapped in a white cloth. She placed this object on a table and, removing the cloth, exposed the bust of M. Lefarge, which we have already seen. Freyberger examined the thing attentively, murmuring to himself as he did so. Mademoiselle Lefarge, watching him narrowly, imagined that he seemed pleased. “Well,” she said at last, “do you think it will be of service to you in your investigations? What do you think of it?” “Ah, mademoiselle,” he replied, “my opinion on a work of art is, perhaps, of no great value and for that reason I have sent for a friend who is a magician where these matters are concerned, but,” looking at his watch, “he is late, this magician.” Scarcely had he spoken than a knock came to the door and a waiter appeared bearing a salver, on which reposed a filthy-looking visiting card. Cécile took the thing, on which was scrawled: “I. Antonides, art dealer, 1006 Old Compton Street.” “Gentleman is outside, miss,” said the waiter, whose cast-iron face was struggling with a grin and conquering it. “Show him in,” said Cécile, and I. Antonides entered.