The wall facing the windows was covered with pictures of a general character, and was penetrated at regular intervals by deep alcoves containing suits of mail and mounted knights armed _cap-à-pie_, illustrating various periods of English history; for the Wyvilles had been an ancient family long ere they received from the hand of Mary Stuart's son the patent of baronetcy. We proceeded leisurely down the gallery, I listening, in shame be it written, with very little interest to the Baronet's genealogical discourse, because all my thoughts were running on Angelo's painting. "I understood," said my uncle, turning to the artist, "that your great picture had gone to Spain, and never expected to meet it in the Abbey here." "What gave you that idea?" inquired Angelo with a smile of amusement. "Yourself, I believe. Don't you remember telling us at Rivoli that you had sold your picture to a Spanish nobleman?" "I certainly do _not_ remember saying so," replied the artist with a decided emphasis on the negative adverb, and speaking in the tone of one who was quite sure of the truth of his statement. "Oh, yes, you did," I returned quietly. "De Argandarez was the name of the nobleman--an old hidalgo of Aragon, you know." "I think I remember it, too," said Daphne timidly. "We are three to one, you see," remarked my uncle. "Far be it from me," said Angelo, "to differ from Miss Leslie, but I certainly have no recollection of ever saying any such thing. I was guilty of falsehood if I did. How could I have said so, when Sir Hugh was the only one who offered to purchase?" This argument was of course unanswerable. The doctor offered us the tribute of a pitying smile, as if to say, "This is how a man of genius is liable to be misinterpreted." We had now reached the middle of the hall, when a sudden exclamation broke from Sir Hugh, and on looking up I saw that worthy Baronet staring at a certain extent of oak panelling in the wall that faced the windows. There was nothing remarkable about this extent of panelling: it held no pictures, that was all; but the Baronet's words soon showed us what was wrong. "Why, how's this?" he cried in a voice that was almost a shout. "The picture's gone!" "The picture? What picture?" cried Angelo, dropping Florrie's arm in his excitement, and hurrying to the side of the Baronet. "Why yours! 'The Fall of Cæsar.'" "Are you sure?" cried Angelo breathlessly. "Quite. And it was hanging here last night, I will swear." There was a deep and painful silence, followed by the usual commonplaces evoked by a surprise. "Where can it have gone?" cried Angelo, his voice expressing the deepest concern. "Sir Hugh, I trust nothing has happened to that picture. Though yours in point of law, I still regard it to some extent as mine. I would never have parted with it, if I had thought it would be destroyed. My picture! my picture! Some one must have stolen it."