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“I’d like very much to see the rubbish that has come down from Miss Fleming’s apartment,” he asked, slipping into the janitor’s hand a large silver coin.

“It’s all mixed up with rubbish from all the apartments on that side of the house,” replied the janitor, indicating a bulging burlap bag.

“Miss Tourville’s, also?” queries Craig.

The janitor nodded assent.

Kennedy surely obtained his money’s worth of junk as the janitor spread the contents of the bag on the cellar floor. With his walking stick he pawed over it minutely, now and then stooping to examine something more or less carefully. He had gone through somewhat more than half of the rubbish that had come from the apartments when he came upon what looked like the broken remains of a little one-ounce dark-colored, labelless bottle.

Kennedy picked it up and sniffed at it. He said nothing, but I saw his brow knit with thought. A moment later he wrapped it in a piece of tissue paper, thanked the janitor, and we mounted the cellar steps to the street.

“I think I’ll try to see Faber tonight,” he remarked as we walked down the avenue. “It will do no harm at any rate.”

Fortunately, we found the young millionaire art connoisseur at home, in a big house which he had inherited from his father, on Madison Avenue, in the Murray Hill section.

“The death of Miss Fleming has completely upset me,” he confessed after we had introduced ourselves without telling too much. “You see, I was quite well acquainted with her.”

Kennedy said nothing, but I could feel that he was longing to ask questions leading up to whether Faber had been the mysterious diner in the Fleming Studio the night before.

“I suppose you are acquainted with Watteau’s ‘Fete du Printemps’?” shot out Craig, after a few inconsequential questions, watching Faber’s face furtively.

“Indeed I am,” replied the young man, apparently not disconcerted in the least.

The fact was that he seemed quite willing, even eager to discuss the painting. I could not make it out, unless it might be that any subject was less painful than the sudden death of Miss Fleming.

“Yes,” he continued voluntarily, “I suppose you know it represents a group of dancers. The central figure of the group, as everyone believes, is reputed to be the passionate and jealous Madame de Montespan, whom the beautiful Madame de Maintenon replaced in the affections of Louis XIV.

“Why, no one thinks of Watteau, with his delightful daintiness and many graceful figures on such masterfully disposed backgrounds as a portrait painter. But the Fete shows, I have always contended, that he drew on many real faces for his characters. Yes, he could paint portraits, too, wonderfully minute and exact little miniatures.”

Faber had risen as he discoursed. “I have a copy of it,” he added, leading the way into his own private gallery, while Craig and I followed him without comment.

We gazed long and intently at the face of the central figure. Small though it was, it was a study in itself, a puzzle, distracting, enigmatical. There was a hard, cruel sensuousness about the beautiful mouth which the painter seemed to have captured and fixed beneath the very oils. Masked cleverly in the painted penetrating dark eyes was a sort of cunning which, combined with the ravishing curves of the cheeks and chin, transfixed the observer.

Something in the face reminded me of a face I had once seen. It was not exactly Rita’s face, but it had a certain quality that recalled it. I fancied that there was in both the living and the painted face a jealousy that would brook no rivalry, that would dare all for the object of its love.

Faber saw that we had caught the spirit of the portrait, and seemed highly gratified.

“What crimes a man might commit under the spell of a woman like that!” exclaimed Craig, noticing his gratification. “By the way, do you know that Miss Fleming was said to have had the original–and that it is gone?”