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“Quite so, my dear; and did you mention that they never sleep in anything but linen, and that Miss Sophia puts away the furs and blankets every spring with her own hands? Both those facts are interesting to the student of human nature.” Doctor Lombard glanced at his watch. “But we are missing an incomparable moment; the light is perfect at this hour.”

Wyant rose, and the doctor led him through the tapestried door and down the passageway.

The light was, in fact, perfect, and the picture shone with an inner radiancy, as though a lamp burned behind the soft screen of the lady’s flesh. Every detail of the foreground detached itself with jewel-like precision. Wyant noticed a dozen accessories which had escaped him on the previous day.

He drew out his note-book, and the doctor, who had dropped his sardonic grin for a look of devout contemplation, pushed a chair forward, and seated himself on a carved settle against the wall.

“Now, then,” he said, “tell Clyde what you can; but the letter killeth.”

He sank down, his hands hanging on the arm of the settle like the claws of a dead bird, his eyes fixed on Wyant’s notebook with the obvious intention of detecting any attempt at a surreptitious sketch.

Wyant, nettled at this surveillance, and disturbed by the speculations which Doctor Lombard’s strange household excited, sat motionless for a few minutes, staring first at the picture and then at the blank pages of the note-book. The thought that Doctor Lombard was enjoying his discomfiture at length roused him, and he began to write.

He was interrupted by a knock on the iron door. Doctor Lombard rose to unlock it, and his daughter entered.

She bowed hurriedly to Wyant, without looking at him.

“Father, had you forgotten that the man from Monte Amiato was to come back this morning with an answer about the bas-relief? He is here now; he says he can’t wait.”

“The devil!” cried her father impatiently. “Didn’t you tell him–“

“Yes; but he says he can’t come back. If you want to see him you must come now.”

“Then you think there’s a chance?–“

She nodded.

He turned and looked at Wyant, who was writing assiduously.

“You will stay here, Sybilla; I shall be back in a moment.”

He hurried out, locking the door behind him.

Wyant had looked up, wondering if Miss Lombard would show any surprise at being locked in with him; but it was his turn to be surprised, for hardly had they heard the key withdrawn when she moved close to him, her small face pale and tumultuous.

“I arranged it–I must speak to you,” she gasped. “He’ll be back in five minutes.”

Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly.

Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about him at the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the strange picture overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl whispering of conspiracies in a voice meant to exchange platitudes with a curate.

“How can I help you?” he said with a rush of compassion.

“Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; it’s so difficult–he watches me–he’ll be back immediately.”

“Try to tell me what I can do.”

“I don’t dare; I feel as if he were behind me.” She turned away, fixing her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. “There he comes, and I haven’t spoken! It was my only chance; but it bewilders me so to be hurried.”

“I don’t hear any one,” said Wyant, listening. “Try to tell me.”

“How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain.” She drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge–“Will you come here again this afternoon–at about five?” she whispered.

“Come here again?”

“Yes–you can ask to see the picture,–make some excuse. He will come with you, of course; I will open the door for you–and–and lock you both in”–she gasped.