Chris crossed the corridor like one who walks in a dream. She had not enough energy left to be astonished even. Her mind travelled quickly over the events of the past hour, and she began to see the way clear. But how had somebody or other managed to remove the picture? Chris examined the spot on the wall where the Rembrandt had been with the eye of a detective.

That part of the mystery was explained in a moment. A sharp cutting instrument, probably a pair of steel pliers with a lever attachment, had been applied to the head of the four stays, and the flat heads had been pinched off as clean as if they had been string. After that it was merely necessary to remove the frame, and a child could have done the rest.

"How clever I am," Chris told herself, bitterly. "I'm like the astute people who put Chubb locks on Russia leather jewel-cases that anybody could rip open with a sixpenny penknife. And in my conceit I deemed the Rembrandt to be absolutely safe. Now what—what is the game?"

It was much easier to ask the question than to answer it. But there were some facts sufficiently obvious to Chris. In the first place she knew that Reginald Henson was at the bottom of the whole thing; she knew that he had traded on the fact that she had taken a fancy to the terrace as an after-dinner lounge; indeed, she had told him so earlier in the day. He had traded on the knowledge that he could prove an alibi if any suspicions attached to him. The fact that he was in danger owing to a slip on the edge of the cliff was all nonsense. He had not been in any danger at all; he had seen Chris there, and he had made all that parade with an eye to the future. As a matter of course, he was down there settling matters with his accomplice of the maimed thumb, who had chosen the cliff way of getting into the castle as the swiftest and the surest from detection.

Yes, it was pretty obvious that the man with the thumb had stolen the print, and that by this time he was far away with his possession. While Chris was helping Henson the latter's accomplice had slipped into the castle and effected the burglary. Chris flicked out the light in the alcove as a servant came along. It was not policy for any of the domestics to be too wise. Chris forced a smile to her face as the maid came along.

"Allen," she asked, "are there many owls about here?"

"Never a one as I know, miss," the maid responded confidently. "I've been here for eleven years, and I never heard of such a thing. Clifford, the head keeper, couldn't sleep at nights if he thought as there was such a thing on the estate. Have you heard one, miss?"

"I was evidently mistaken," Chris said. "Of course you would know best."

So the cry of the owl had been a signal of success. Chris sat in the gloom there resolved to see the comedy played through. The events of the night were not over yet.

"I'd give something to know what has taken place in the dining-room,"
Chris murmured.

She was going to know before long. The lights were being extinguished all over the house. Henson came up to bed heavily, as one who is utterly worn out. At the same time he looked perfectly satisfied with himself. He might have been a vigilant officer who had settled all his plans and was going to seek a well-earned rest before the enemy came on to his destruction. In sooth Henson was utterly worn out. He had taxed his strength to the uttermost, but he was free to rest now.

Meanwhile, the conference in the dining-room proceeded. Lord Littimer had received his guest with frigid politeness, to which Bell had responded with an equally cold courtesy. Littimer laid his cigar aside and looked Bell steadily in the face.

"I have granted your request against my better judgment," he said. "I am not sanguine that the least possible good can come of it. But I have quite grown out of all my illusions; I have seen the impossible proved too often. Will you take anything?"

"I hope to do so presently," Bell said, pointedly; "but not yet. In the first instance I have to prove to you that I have not stolen your Rembrandt."

"Indeed? I should like to know how you propose to do that."

"I shall prove it at once. You were under the impression that you possessed the only copy of the 'Crimson Blind' in existence. When you lost yours and a copy of the picture was found in my possession, you were perfectly justified in believing that I was the thief."

"I did take that extreme view of the matter," Littimer said, drily.

"Under the circumstances I should have done the same thing. But you were absolutely wrong, because there were two copies of the picture. Yours was stolen by an enemy of mine who had the most urgent reasons for discrediting me in your eyes, and the other was concealed amongst my belongings. It was no loss to the thief, because subsequently the stolen one—my own one being restored to you—could have been exposed and disposed of as a new find. Your print is in the house?"

"It hangs in the gallery at the present moment."

"Very good. Then, my lord, what do you say to this?"

Bell took the roll of paper from his pocket, and gravely flattened it out on the table before him, so that the full rays of the electric light should fall upon it. Littimer was a fine study of open-mouthed surprise. He could only stand there gaping, touching the stained paper with his fingers and breathing heavily.

"Here is a facsimile of your treasure," Bell went on. "Here is the same thing. You are a good judge on these matters, and I venture to say you will call it genuine. There is nothing of forgery about the engraving."

"Good heavens, no," Littimer snapped. "Any fool could see that."

"Which you will admit is a very great point in my favour," Bell said, gravely.

"I begin to think that I have done you a great injustice," Littimer admitted; "but, under the circumstances, I don't see how I could have done anything else. Look at that picture. It is exactly the same as mine. There is exactly the same discolouration in the margin in exactly the same place."

"Probably they lay flat on the top of one another for scores of years."

"Possibly. I can't see the slightest difference in the smallest particular. Even now I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I am the victim of some kind of plot or delusion. The house is quiet now and there is nobody about. Before I believe the evidence of my senses—and I have had cause to doubt them more than once—I should like to compare this print with mine. Will you follow me to the gallery, if you haven't forgotten the way?"

Littimer took up the treasure from the table gingerly.

He was pleased and at the same time disappointed; pleased to find that he had been mistaken all these years, sorry in the knowledge that his picture was unique no longer. He said nothing until the alcove was reached, and Chris drew back in the shadow to let the others pass.

"Now to settle the question for all time," Littimer said. "Will you be so good as to turn on the electric light? You will find the switch in the angle of the wall on your right. And when we have settled the affair and I have apologized to you in due form, you shall command my services and my purse to right the wrong. If it costs me £10,000 the man who has done this thing shall suffer. Please to put up the light, Bell."

Chris listened breathlessly. She was not quite certain what she was about to see. She could hear Bell fumbling for the light, she heard the click of the switch, and then she saw the brilliant belt of flame flooding the alcove. Littimer paused and glanced at Bell, the latter looked round the alcove as if seeking for something.

"I cannot see the picture here," he said. "If have made a mistake—"

Littimer stood looking at the speaker with eyes like blazing stars. Just for a moment or two he was speechless with indignation.

"You charlatan," he said, hoarsely. "You barefaced trickster."

Bell started back. His mute question stung Littimer to the quick.

"You wanted to be cleared," the latter said. "You wanted to befool me again. You come here in some infernally cunning fashion, you steal my picture from the frame and have the matchless audacity to pass it off for a second one. Man alive, if it were earlier I would have you flogged from the house like the ungrateful dog that you are."

Chris checked down the cry that rose to her lips. She saw, as in a flash of lightning, the brilliancy and simplicity and cunning of Henson's latest and most masterly scheme.