"It was a mean trick of Angelo's," I muttered, "to mutilate that paper. I am certain it contained a reference to George. I would give fifty pounds to know his reason for so doing. No matter; this little mystification can't last very long, for I'll send to England for another copy to-morrow." From the picture my thoughts wandered to the hidalgo whom Angelo had represented as having purchased it, and with a view to learning something, however brief, about this grandee, I took down from the shelf a book on the Spanish peerage, and turned over its pages. I was still occupied thus when my uncle returned. "Have you discovered anything?" was my first question. "Absolutely nothing." "Paolo had nothing to reveal?" "Paolo was not there. I was in the cathedral square by eight, but could see nothing of him. I looked in at the cathedral, too. It was bright with lamps, being the eve of a festa; but he was not there; so, after two hours' patient watching and waiting, I gave it up in disgust." "We are sure to see him at early Mass; his duties will take him there." "Probably," replied my uncle, sinking into the armchair lately vacated by Daphne, and lighting a cigar. "But what ponderous tome are you poring over so studiously?" "The _Spanish Peerage_." "Ah! take St. Paul's advice, 'Beware of endless genealogies,' for they are dull reading." "Not when one has a motive for studying them." "A motive? Great Jupiter! what has made you take so sudden an interest in the hidalgos?" "You remember to whom Angelo said he had sold his picture?" "The Spanish baron, De Argandarez. Ah! I see, you are looking him up." "I am; and, do you know, I cannot find the name anywhere in this book." "You haven't looked in the right place." "Well, here is the book; examine it for yourself. Here is the list of barons. Find De Argandarez." "Humph! I have no wish to qualify myself for a Spanish herald. I'll take your word for it that the name of Argandarez is not here, merely remarking that the book is dated 1898, and that therefore the fellow may have been created a baron since then, which will account for the omission of his name." "What! When Angelo called him an old hidalgo of Aragon, and spoke of his ancestral walls, or ancestral castle, or something similar! At any rate, he used the word ancestral." "Ha! I remember something of the sort," my uncle said, and the alert glance in his eye belied the indifference in his tone. "You are certain the name does not occur in this book? Hum! Unless it be an editorial oversight, our noble grandee would seem to have no existence, save in the imagination of Angelo. Il Divino is slightly given to romancing." "Il Divino must have had a motive for the--lie," I replied, with an emphasis on the last word, as a protest against my uncle's euphemism. "He evidently wishes the destination of his picture to remain unknown to us."