"Young fellow, in the dress of two hundred years ago. Pleasant face—blue eyes—look of Colin. That is why she has hidden it—if she has, which I, for one, don't doubt. Can't say this to Colin or Giles. I'm telling you in confidence." There was in Mr. Dugdale a feminine element, apparent at this moment. Phyllys assented. He seemed to be describing the hidden oil-painting—the likeness of Mrs. Keith's brother. "Why should she mind its being like Colin?" "No accounting for feminine vagaries. But in this case a clue does exist. She has always set herself against Colin's modelling—no reason!—it's like the schoolboys and Dr. Fell. Since things are so, she detests being told that Colin is like the young fellow in the portrait, simply because 'he' was a sculptor—and a successful one in his day, though not of lasting fame. Which accounts for the resemblance—not so much feature as expression." "The spirit of sculpture in both," suggested Phyllys. "That may be! However, years ago she made up her mind that Colin should not model; and, having made up her mind, she sticks to it like a leech. Therefore, anything that encourages him in his love of sculpture she hates like poison. Consequently, when she detected a growing likeness, she banished the portrait from the drawing-room. Then, finding attention drawn to the resemblance, she made away with it. Bless you—no!—even she wouldn't venture to destroy it. But I haven't a doubt—not a doubt!—she's got it somewhere under lock and key. And what is more, I'm certain Giles suspects the same—which is why he refuses to have the police." "Doesn't he want it found?" "He doesn't want his private affairs to be the talk of the county. Mind, he says nothing. All this is conjecture. I'm telling you because—" and a pause—"I think you ought to know; and you might have influence with Mrs. Keith." His look said, "You know something already." Phyllys admired his astuteness, but felt herself powerless. "It seems such an extraordinary thing," she said. "A picture belonging to somebody else." Mr. Dugdale tapped his forehead with a forefinger. "Is she—really?" "That is my theory again. Nothing else explains." "Explains—?" "The muddle she makes of life. The way in which she snubs her own son, and fawns on Giles. The fact that not a word she says can be relied on. There's a moral twist in her. She will contradict herself a dozen times a day, if it suits her purpose. All the same, she knows what she is about. She's the oddest mixture I ever came across of cleverness and—really one might almost call it semi-insanity. Only there is method in the madness." "What sort of man is her brother?" "Jock Reeves? Never saw him. Rather a scamp, I imagine, in his youth—banished to Australia—family pleased to get him out of the way. So Mrs. Keith says. 'Dear Jock' she calls him. Never seems to write to 'dear Jock,' or to hear from him; and not the smallest anxiety to get him home."