"'P. S.--My secret? But on second thought I will take it with me.'"
St. John's Park and the streets fronting upon it was once a fashionable
quarter of the town. Now a hideous railway freight station occupies the
former park area, and the old-time residences, with their curiously
wrought-iron stoop-railings and graceful fan-lights, have been degraded
to the base uses of a tenement population. Only the quaint chapel of
St. John has survived the slow process of contamination, a single rock
rising above the sordid tide.
The coach stopped before one of the most pretentious of the old-time
houses-now, alas! one of the dirtiest and most dilapidated. We were
directed to the upper story, Indiman leading the way.
A single attic chamber, bearing the marks of the cruelest poverty, a
stove, an artist's easel, a pallet spread directly on the grimy floor,
and upon it a man in the last stage of consumption. He glanced up at
Indiman and waved his hand feebly. He tried to speak, but his voice
died away in his throat; Indiman knelt by his side to catch the words.
"It is cold--shut stove door--there's enough now to last me out."
Indiman went to the stove, where a little fire was smouldering; he shut
the door and turned on the draught. The flame leaped up instantly, the
crazy smoke-pipe rattling as it expanded under the influence of the
heat. Indiman turned again to the dying man.
"You know well enough why I have come," he said, slowly. "I have in my
possession one of your copies of the 'Red Duchess.' Tell me the truth."
There was no audible response from the bloodless lips, but the dark
eyes were full of ironic laughter. Then they closed again.
"Richmond!" said Indiman, sharply. "Richmond!"
I had been standing by the door, but now I came forward and joined
Indiman. "Gone!" he said, briefly. "Gone, and taken his secret with
him. Only, what WAS the secret?"
We tried to argue it out on the way up-town, but with only indifferent
success. Granted the premise that Richmond had actually stolen the "Red
Duchess," what were his motives in multiplying copies of the picture, a
proceeding that must infallibly end in the detection of his crime? And
the supreme question--what had finally become of the original?
My theory was simple enough. The man was mentally unbalanced, the
result of brooding over his own failure in art. He had stolen the
picture, possessed with the idea that by study of it he should discover
the secret of its power. He had made copies of the picture and sold
them in order to supply himself with the necessities of life. At the
end, knowing himself to be dying, he had caused the original to be
returned to the gallery at Petersburg, a contribution to the conscience
fund.
Indiman's argument was more subtle. "Granted," he said, "that the poor
chap was mentally irresponsible, and that he actually did steal the
picture. But you must take into account his colossal vanity, his
monumental egotism. Richmond never admitted for a moment that he was a
failure as an artist; there was a cabal against him, and that accounted
for everything. This affair was simply his revenge upon his critics and
detractors; he would turn out these reproductions of a masterpiece so
perfect in their technique as not to be distinguished from their
original, nor indeed from each other. So having set the artistic world
by the ears, he would enjoy his triumph, at first in secret, and
afterwards openly."
"But what was the picture returned to the Hermitage?"
"One of these same copies--that was the supreme sarcasm."
"The original, then--the 'Red Duchess'?"
"The fuel in the stove consisted of some strips of painted canvas,"
said Indiman, gravely. "I don't know, I can't be sure--they were almost
consumed when I shut the door."
"An imperfect copy," I hazarded.
"Some day we will take a trip to the Hermitage to make sure," answered
Indiman. "'Where ignorance is bliss,' etc. What do you think, Blake?"
he continued, turning to our companion.
"It's all the same to me, sir," answered Blake, a little ruefully. "It
was a big thing, right enough, but somehow I seem to have missed it all
round. Well, good-night, sir, if you'll kindly set me down at this
corner."
Indiman and I enjoyed a small supper under Oscar's watchful eye. The
night was fine and we started to walk home. Have I said that Indiman
had proposed that I should move my traps over to his house and take up
my quarters there for an indefinite period? In exchange for services
rendered, as he put it, and somehow he made it possible for me to
accept the invitation. It had been twenty-four hours now since I had
first enjoyed the honor of Mr. Esper Indiman's acquaintance; the
novelty of having enough to eat--actually enough--was already beginning
to wear off. Man is a wonderful creature; give him time and he will
adjust himself to anything.
At the corner of Fifth Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street, Indiman
stopped suddenly and picked up a small object. It was a latch-key of
the familiar Yale-lock pattern. I looked at it rather indifferently.
"Man! man!" said Indiman, with simulated despair. "Surely you are an
incorrigibly prosaic person. A key--does it suggest to you no
possibilities of mystery, of romance?"
"Well, not without a door," I answered, smartly.
"Oh, is that all! To-morrow we will go out and find a door upon which
this little key may be profitably employed. You promise to enter that
door with me?"
"I promise."