"I have not seen him go out, sir." "Not since you saw him come in?" "Not since then, sir--no." "About half-past seven he came in, I think? Yes, about half-past." "Quite right, sir." Again the odd gleam came into the doctor's eyes, as it had come when, by one of his amazing leading questions he had learnt that Lawrence Guthrie's father resided in Constantinople. The doctor mounted to the first floor. He was about to ring the bell of No. 59b, when another idea struck him. He descended and again addressed the porter. "The Count must be resting. He does not reply. He has, of course, discharged his servants?" "Yes, sir. He leaves England next week." "Ah, he is alone." Upstairs once more. He rang three times before the door was opened to him by a tall, slight man, arrayed in a blue silk dressing-gown. He had a most pleasant face, and wore his moustache and beard according to the latest Parisian mode. He looked about thirty years of age, was fair, blue-eyed, and handsome. "I am sorry to trouble you so late, Count," said the old doctor, in perfect French; "but I think I can make you an offer for some, if not all, of your collection." He hunted, peering through a case which apparently contained some dozens of cards, finally handing the Count the following: ISIDOR LEVI Fine Art Expert _London and Paris._ Count de Guise hesitated, glanced at his caller, glanced at his watch, cleared his throat--and still hesitated. "If I approve," continued 'Isidor Levi,' "I will hand you a cheque on the Credit Lyonnais." The Count bowed. "Enter, M. Levi. Your name, of course, is known to me." Indeed it was a name familiar enough in art circles. Dr. Lepardo entered. The room into which the Count ushered him was most magnificently appointed. The visitor's feet sank into the carpet as into banked moss. Beautiful furniture stood about. Pictures by eminent artists graced the walls. Statuettes, vases, busts, choice antiques, were everywhere. It was the room of a wealthy connoisseur, of an aesthete whose delicacy of taste bordered upon the effeminate. The doctor stared hard at the Count without permitting the latter to observe that he did so. With his hands thrust deep in the sack-like pockets of his inverness he drifted from treasure to treasure--uninvited, from room to room--like some rudderless craft. The Count followed. In his handsome face it might be read that he resented the attitude of M. Levi, who behaved as though he found himself in the gallery of a dealer. Suddenly, before a Van Dyck portrait, the visitor cried: "Ah, a forgery, m'sieur! Spurious." Count de Guise leapt round upon him with perfect fury blazing in his blue eyes. The veins had sprung into prominence upon his forehead, and one throbbed--a virile blue cord--upon his left temple. "M'sieur!" He seemed to choke. His sudden passion was volcanic--terrible. Dr. Lepardo, still peering, seemed not to heed him; then quickly: