Barebone had had time to think out a course of action. His face seemed to puzzle Colville, who was rarely at fault in such judgments of character as came within his understanding. But he seemed for an instant to be on the threshold of something beyond his understanding; and yet he had lived, almost day and night, for some months with Barebone. Since the beginning--that far-off beginning at Farlingford--their respective positions had been quite clearly defined. Colville, the elder by nearly twenty years, had always been the guide and mentor and friend--the compulsory pilot he had gaily called himself. He had a vast experience of the world. He had always moved in the best French society. All that he knew, all the influence he could command, and the experience upon which he could draw were unreservedly at Barebone's service. The difference in years had only affected their friendship in so far as it defined their respective positions and prohibited any thought of rivalry. Colville had been the unquestioned leader, Barebone the ready disciple. And now in the twinkling of an eye the positions were reversed. Colville stood watching Barebone's face with eyes rendered almost servile by a great suspense. He waited breathless for the next words. “This portrait,” said Barebone, “of the Queen was placed in the locket by you?” Colville nodded with a laugh of conscious cleverness rewarded by complete success. There was nothing in his companion's voice to suggest suppressed anger. It was all right after all. “I had great difficulty in finding just what I wanted,” he added, modestly. “What I remember--though the memory is necessarily vague--was a portrait of a woman older than this. Her style of dress was more elaborate. Her hair was dressed differently, with sort of curls at the side, and on the top, half buried in the hair, was the imitation of a nest--a dove's nest. Such a thing would naturally stick in a child's memory. It stuck in mine.” “Yes--and nearly gave the game away to-night,” said Colville, gulping down the memory of those tense moments. “That portrait--the original--you have not destroyed it?” “Oh no. It is of some value,” replied Colville, almost naively. He felt in his pocket and produced a silver cigar case. The miniature was wrapped in a piece of thin paper, which he unfolded. Barebone took the painting and examined it with a little nod of recognition. His memory had not failed after twenty years. “Who is this lady?” he asked. Dormer Colville hesitated. “Do you know the history of that period?” he inquired, after a moment's reflection. For the last hour he had been trying to decide on a course of conduct. During the last few minutes he had been forced to change it half a dozen times. “Septimus Marvin, of Farlingford, is one of the greatest living authorities on those reigns. I learnt a good deal from him,” was the answer. “That lady is, I think, the Duchesse de Guiche.” “You think--”