vacant chair and drinking two glasses of wine in rapid succession
to cover his confusion. A comedy, apparently, but to what purpose?
Mr. Blake blushed painfully, and made no reply to the polite
commonplaces that I ventured; Indiman smiled benevolently upon both
of us, and in the most natural possible manner led the conversation
to the subject of portrait-painting. There was his text before him-
-the famous "Red Duchess"--and he talked well. I found myself
listening with absorbed attention, and even the shy Mr. Blake
became oblivious of the keener agonies of self-consciousness. So we
went on until the game course had been removed.

Our host rose to his feet, champagne glass in hand. "Gentlemen," he
said, and we followed his example, Blake managing to upset a
decanter of sherry in the process, "in life and in art--the fairest
of her sex. I give you, gentlemen, 'La Duchesse Rouge.'"

The toast was drunk with becoming decorum. I was about to resume my
seat when I saw that Mr. Blake had screwed himself up to a
desperate decision, and that the climax of the drama was at hand.
He was quite pale, and he stuttered a little as he spoke.

"Very sorry, I--I'm sure," he blurted out, "but you are Mr. In-
Indiman?"

"I am, and not in the least sorry for it. Go on."

"It is my d-duty, sir, to place you under arrest for complicity in
the theft of that p-p-picture." Mr. Blake threw back his coat and
displayed a detective's shield attached to an aggressively red
suspender brace.