"I believe he was. Permitted none to enter his studio till the work was finished. He claims to have rediscovered a secret known to the great artists of classical times, and does not want to reveal it to contemporary rivals. Between ourselves, I don't believe there is any mystery about it, but it suits his purpose to pretend there is. Our friend knows something about human nature, and to throw a veil of secrecy round your work while you are doing it is quite good business, provided, of course, the work is good when finished. Let me see, you were in Paris last spring. Of course you saw the great picture?" "No, we haven't seen it," my uncle replied. "Have you?" "Have I?" said the Baronet, looking as much astonished as if he had been asked whether he knew the alphabet. "My dear fellow, what are you talking about? Don't you know the picture is here?" "Here?" was the simultaneous ejaculation of my uncle and myself. "Here. In this house. In my gallery." That which eludes the most painstaking search is often revealed by mere accident. Without any design on our part, we were at length within measurable distance of seeing that which we had been vainly trying to see--to wit, Angelo's famous picture. "Did you buy it from the Baron?" I asked. "The Baron? What Baron? I don't understand you. I saw the picture last summer in Paris, was struck with it like everybody else, and offered Angelo £4,000 for it." "Which offer he accepted?" said my uncle. "Which offer he accepted--after a delay of a day or two." "You purchased it direct from Angelo?" said I. "Direct." "Strange!" "What is there so strange in the transaction?" "Do you know," I said, "that when we saw Angelo at Rivoli, and expressed a desire--or, to be more correct, when Daphne expressed a desire to see his picture, he told her it was impossible--he had sold it to some Spanish hidalgo." "He must have been dreaming, then," returned Sir Hugh. "I was the first purchaser and the last." "What could have induced him to tell such a falsehood?" I said. "Do not say falsehood," replied the Baronet; "say error of memory, rather. He was thinking of some other picture, perhaps?" "No, 'The Death of Cæsar;' that was the work he referred to, I am certain." "Perhaps he confounded me with some intending purchaser. Why he should wish to conceal the destination of his picture from you I cannot tell. But there, he's a curious fellow," muttered the Baronet thoughtfully. "Genius always is eccentric, I suppose. He will stand for hours, I am told, on the cliffs, solitary and melancholy, watching the Atlantic breakers and soliloquising like a second Manfred. If I didn't know that art was his only mistress, I should fancy he was in love." "Your fancy is not far removed from the truth," I murmured to myself. "When you were at Paris," I asked, "did you hear anything of a fracas between Angelo and a military officer in connection with this picture?" "Yes, I remember the affair very well."