"The picture has been removed by some one within the Abbey, and not by any outsider: of that I am certain. If any of you has taken it, he had better confess at once, and I will overlook the offence, or rather I will inflict no other punishment than that of dismissal from my service. I will give the guilty party, whoever he may be, an hour to consider the matter. If at the end of that time no confession be forthcoming, I will make a thorough search of the Abbey from end to end and from roof to basement, for I am certain the picture must be concealed somewhere within it. And I promise you whoever shall be found to have taken it shall not be leniently dealt with. What's the matter with that girl?" This last question was occasioned by the singular conduct of the little housemaid before mentioned who had so evoked Angelo's wrath. She was staring at the artist, and had been staring at him ever since his outburst, as though there were some strange attraction in his face. Several times she had seemed on the point of speaking, but had hesitated as if from fear. At the Baronet's question, however, her emotion at last bubbled over and took the shape of words. She pointed to the artist with her forefinger, and cried, as defiant of grammar as the monks of Rheims when they beheld the kleptomaniac jackdaw: "That's him! that's him!" Her arm dropped from a horizontal to a vertical position on receiving a smart tap from the housekeeper's hand. "How dare you point in that rude fashion? Have you no manners? What do you mean?" "That's the face!" cried the girl--"the face in the picture!" "Oh, that's what you mean, is it?" said the Baronet. "Yes, yes; we know that." And turning to the artist, he explained the housemaid's words by saying: "She recognises you to be the Pompey of the picture." "And there's the other face," cried the girl, pointing at me. This observation startled me. Surely the artist had not adopted my features as the model for the face of his Cæsar? "Don't be stupid, girl!" said Sir Hugh impatiently. "The other face is no more like Mr. Willard's than--yes, it is, though, now I come to look deeply at you," he continued, regarding me a moment. "There is a faint resemblance--not much. The girl has a quick eye. How she stares at you, Angelo! Upon my word," he said with a grim smile, "I believe she thinks you have stepped out of the canvas. Don't stare so at Mr. Vasari, girl. You must be out of your mind!" "Then what's he laughing for, and staring at me with his wicked eyes--frightening me so?" "Jane," said the housekeeper, administering as mild a shaking as the dignity of her position and the presence of her guests would allow, "how dare you make an exhibition of yourself in this manner? I'll send you home to your mother this very day! How dare you? You shall not stay here another hour!" "It's his fault!" cried the girl, rendered desperate by fright. "He keeps staring at me and smiling wickedly. I won't be looked at like that!"