"You hear cries?" said I. "What sort of cries?" "I can't tell you exactly, sir, for I am never near enough to hear. Faint die-away sounds they are, like a mother crooning her babe to sleep." "Granting, what I don't for one moment admit, that the sounds come from the gallery, what have they got to do with Mr. Vasari's picture?" the Baronet asked. "I have been butler in this house for twenty years, Sir Hugh," said the old fellow gravely and respectfully, "and there were never such sounds in the gallery until that picture came here." "Do you hear them every night?" my uncle asked. "Oh no, sir, only at intervals. They may occur for two or three nights running, and then perhaps they won't be heard for a week." "Well," said Sir Hugh testily, "since you are sure the sounds are real and that they _do_ come from the gallery, give us your explanation of them, that is, if you have any to give." "It isn't what you might call an explanation," said the butler, who maintained a quiet but firm manner throughout, "but I can tell you a little more. One evening last week I was passing along the gravel-path outside the gallery windows, when I chanced to look up, and there, staring at me through the panes, was a face. Though it was dusk at the time, there was light enough to see every feature of it, and I will swear that it was the same face as in the picture." "What did you do when you saw it?" "I went close up to the window." "And then?" "It wasn't there." "And you heard no sound from within?" "Not a sound. I came into the Abbey at once, taking Brown with me, and found both doors of the gallery locked. We searched the gallery, but found no one in it." "Did you examine the picture, Fruin," said the Baronet, "to see whether Imperial Cæsar exhibited any traces of having lately walked out of the canvas?" "I did examine the picture, Sir Hugh, and I am certain it had been disturbed, for I will swear that it was not hanging at the same angle as it had been in the morning." "Cæsar didn't speak, I presume, and ask you how you were?" But the butler, whose air of quiet and sober dignity almost atoned for the absurdity of the story, was not to be moved by his master's gibes. "Don't you think it was fancy on your part, Fruin?" said I. "Just think how impossible it is for a figure painted on canvas to move from its frame and peer through a casement!" "What I saw on the other side of the window was a real thing," replied the butler firmly. "It was the very face in the picture, and so would you say had you been there to see it." "I wish to goodness we had!" said Sir Hugh. "Well, well! you may go, Fruin, unless Mr. Leslie or Mr. Willard wishes to ask you any more questions." We had no more to put, and when the butler had withdrawn, I asked the Baronet his opinion of the story.