She looked at him with her odd directness. “You will come again?” she said quickly; and turning to her father she added: “You know what Professor Clyde asked. This gentleman cannot give him any account of the picture without seeing it again.” Doctor Lombard glanced at her vaguely; he was still like a person in a trance. “Eh?” he said, rousing himself with an effort. “I said, father, that Mr. Wyant must see the picture again if he is to tell Professor Clyde about it,” Miss Lombard repeated with extraordinary precision of tone. Wyant was silent. He had the puzzled sense that his wishes were being divined and gratified for reasons with which he was in no way connected. “Well, well,” the doctor muttered, “I don’t say no--I don’t say no. I know what Clyde wants--I don’t refuse to help him.” He turned to Wyant. “You may come again--you may make notes,” he added with a sudden effort. “Jot down what occurs to you. I’m willing to concede that.” Wyant again caught the girl’s eye, but its emphatic message perplexed him. “You’re very good,” he said tentatively, “but the fact is the picture is so mysterious--so full of complicated detail--that I’m afraid no notes I could make would serve Clyde’s purpose as well as--as a photograph, say. If you would allow me--” Miss Lombard’s brow darkened, and her father raised his head furiously. “A photograph? A photograph, did you say? Good God, man, not ten people have been allowed to set foot in that room! A PHOTOGRAPH?” Wyant saw his mistake, but saw also that he had gone too far to retreat. “I know, sir, from what Clyde has told me, that you object to having any reproduction of the picture published; but he hoped you might let me take a photograph for his personal use--not to be reproduced in his book, but simply to give him something to work by. I should take the photograph myself, and the negative would of course be yours. If you wished it, only one impression would be struck off, and that one Clyde could return to you when he had done with it.” Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. “When he had done with it? Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had been re-photographed, drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand to hand, defiled by every ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by the blundering praise of every art-scribbler in Europe! Bah! I’d as soon give you the picture itself: why don’t you ask for that?” “Well, sir,” said Wyant calmly, “if you will trust me with it, I’ll engage to take it safely to England and back, and to let no eye but Clyde’s see it while it is out of your keeping.” The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then he burst into a laugh. “Upon my soul!” he said with sardonic good humor. It was Miss Lombard’s turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His last words and her father’s unexpected reply had evidently carried her beyond her depth. “Well, sir, am I to take the picture?” Wyant smilingly pursued.