GRAFTON learned that the next was one of the three weekly public days at the Grand Duke’s galleries. About eleven the next morning he went to look at his Spaniard and develop his plans for its capture. As he neared The Castle he saw a gardener at work upon his knees, trimming a bush of big pink and white flowers.

“Where is the entrance to the galleries?” he asked, when he was within a yard of the gardener.

“Sh!” whispered the gardener, looking nervously up at the windows.“What is it?” said Grafton, following his glance and seeing nothing.

“His Royal Highness permits no noise,” replied the gardener in an undertone. “He hears every sound—especially every little sound. Only Sunday it was that he sent out to have the noise stopped. And there was no noise that anybody could hear. And when the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber reported it to His Royal Highness, what do you think His Royal Highness said? It was marvellous!”

“And what did he say?” inquired Grafton.

“His Royal Highness said, ‘It is the sound of the grass and bushes growing. Tear them up!’ Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful!” said Grafton. “Why aren’t they torn up?”

“All the gentlemen of the court entreated and at last dissuaded His Royal Highness. It was a terrible crisis. Some of the gentlemen were weak from agitation and sweating. Yes, His Royal Highness is a true prince. Only a true prince could hear grass and bushes grow.”

“It’s fortunate he’s a prince, isn’t it?” said Grafton. “Now, if he were an ordinary mortal they’d lock him up in a lunatic asylum.”

The gardener gave a frightened look at the windows, then almost whispered: “Yes, that is so. But princes are different from us; they’re so sensitive, so high-bred. I often think of the things they do here, and I say, ‘If I were to do that, they’d think I was light in the head.’ But, of course, princes can’t be judged like ordinary people.”

“No, indeed,” assented Grafton, “that would never do. Where is the entrance to the galleries?”

“Take the path to the left until you come to the modern wing. The entrance is under the balcony; you will see it.”

Grafton followed the gardener’s directions and, climbing the steps, was about to open the door. At each side, in the same frame, were long, narrow glass windows. At one of these peeping-windows he saw the Grand Duke, his mouth distended in a tremendous yawn. Grafton hesitated. The Grand Duke, in an old, black frock-suit, opened the door.

“Good-morning,” said Grafton. “Are you the keeper of the galleries. These are the Grand Duke’s galleries, are they not?”

“Yes.” The Grand Duke beamed. “Won’t you come in?”

“I’m an American,” continued Grafton, “and I’m much interested in pictures. I particularly wished to see the Grand Duke’s Rembrandts.”

“Ah; it will be a pleasure to show you through. We like Americans here.” He spoke in excellent English. “We once had an American at our little court. But when her husband died she fled. It was too dull for her. But we have to stay here.”

“You surprise me,” said Grafton. “I had always heard that the Grand Duke was a most interesting, a most unusual man.”

Casimir shrugged his shoulders. “He is the most bored of all. He does nothing but regret his youth. He is old, worn-out, a poor creature—no strength, no stomach, no nothing but memories, and a bad temper. And he doesn’t get much pleasure out of his temper. Of what use is a temper when no one dares answer back?”

They had come to Grafton’s Spaniard, indifferently hung among the fierce-looking Teutonic war-lords in armor. “Evidently he doesn’t care especially for it,” said Grafton to himself. Aloud he said: “What a collection of fighters!”

“No wonder they fought,” replied the Grand Duke. “They were so bored that they had to fight to save themselves from suicide or lunacy. Any one would make war in their position—if he dared.”

“But it isn’t allowed so much nowadays.”

“No; worse luck,” growled the Grand Duke.

“Why!” exclaimed Grafton. “There’s the spurious Velasquez from Acton’s collection. Surely the Grand Duke wasn’t caught on that.” Grafton went to the proper distance and angle and examined his beloved Spaniard with a tranquil face and a covetous heart. “It seems strange to meet an old acquaintance so far from home. If I hadn’t been ill when Acton sold, I’d have bid on this. It’s pleasing, very pleasing, though clearly not a Velasquez.”

“We got it because it is a portrait of one of our house—the Duke of Hispania Media, who captured Barcelona early in the eighteenth century.”

“Was that before or after the Archduke Charles took it?”

“It was the capture sometimes erroneously credited to the Archduke Charles. He was present, I believe.”

Grafton laughed good-naturedly. “And in England I suppose they’d say Peterborough took it—he was present, I believe.”

“The English are great liars,” said Casimir, sourly.

“That’s what every nation says about every other,” said Grafton.

The Grand Duke chuckled. “And all are right. Now we come to the Rembrandts.”

It was a fine collection, and Grafton and the Grand Duke went slowly from picture to picture, from drawing to drawing, comparing opinions, telling stories of experiences in collecting. When they reached the examples of Rembrandt’s early work, Grafton was enthusiastic. “But,” said he, “it is too small; there should be more examples.”

“True,” Casimir sighed. “It is not so satisfactory as we wish.”“Possibly I attach more importance to this weak spot,” continued Grafton, “than another would, because I have an example of his early work and so am interested in it.”

“What is your example, may I ask?” Casimir spoke in a too casual tone.

“A peasant woman with an astonishingly handsome-ugly face; it’s usually described as ‘The Woman with the Earrings,’ because they are very queerly shaped.”

As Grafton thus described the smaller and less interesting of his two early Rembrandts, he watched Casimir’s face mirrored in the glass over a picture. He saw a swift glance, so piercing that he would not have believed those burned-out eyes capable of it. But when Casimir spoke it was to say, carelessly, “I think I’ve heard of it—a small affair, isn’t it?”

“I couldn’t get more than fifteen or twenty thousand marks for it, if I were selling it,” said Grafton. If he had not seen the swoop of that covetous collector glance he would have been discouraged and would have begun to talk of his larger Rembrandt. But he decided to wait. Perhaps the smaller Rembrandt would alone get him his Spaniard, and possibly another picture to boot.

They went on with their examination. Apparently the Grafton Rembrandt had passed from the Grand Duke’s mind. After three-quarters of an hour he said: “Now this, I think, antedates your ‘Armorer.’”

The only outward sign of confusion Grafton gave was to pause abruptly in his walk. “Your ‘Armorer’!”—that was his other and finer Rembrandt. How did the Grand Duke know he had it when he had not spoken of it? “Fool that I am!” he said to himself. “The Grand Duke knows his subject, knows where the Rembrandts are. Why, he now knows my name, I’ll wager.” He was much depressed; he felt that he would not get his Spaniard either easily or cheaply. “The only advantage I have left is that he doesn’t know just what I want, though, no doubt, he has made up his mind that I’m not here for mere sight-seeing.”

As he was thinking he was examining the picture to which Casimir had called attention. He now said: “No, I think not; I’m sure my ‘Woman with the Earrings’ antedates it.” Again the glass covering of a picture betrayed Casimir; Grafton saw a look of relief in his face. “He knew he’d made a break,” thought Grafton, “and now he hopes I didn’t notice it.”

After a few minutes Grafton said he must be going. Casimir’s face was as unreadable as his own; no one could have suspected from looking at either that both were determined to meet again. Grafton thanked Casimir heartily and turned away.

“Do you stay long here?” asked Casimir.

“A day or two, perhaps,” replied Grafton. “My plans are unsettled.”

“To-morrow is a closed day. But if you return, I shall be glad to show you the rest of the collection.”

Grafton knew he had scored. “You are very kind,” he said.

“It is possible that I may be able to show you through His Royal Highness’s apartments. There are several remarkable pictures—a Leonardo, a few Van Dycks, and some interesting moderns.”

“That would be delightful.”

“Then it is agreed?”

“If I can arrange it. At what hour?”

“At ten. I shall expect you.”

“I think I can come. You are most courteous.”

“It is a pleasure. Until to-morrow!”