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Updated: June 23, 2025
Now, if Lamb and Drummond were like some unscrupulous dealers that I know, instead of being beyond reproach, there would be reason to think " He did not finish the mental sentence, but tossed the paper aside, and rose suddenly to his feet. "By Jove, I'll hang up the duplicate!" he muttered. "I was going to send it to Von Whele's executors, but it is worth keeping now, as a curiosity.
He examined them again, with increasing wonder, and then went carefully through the other portfolios. The search was fruitless. The copy of Martin Von Whele's Rembrandt was gone! "What can it mean?" thought Jack. "I distinctly remember putting the canvas back in the biggest portfolio I could swear to that. I have not touched them since. Yet the picture is gone missing stolen. Yes, stolen!
A rascally conspiracy, with Drummond at the bottom of it British cunning against Dutch stupidity! I seldom miss anything in the papers, Nevill, and yet I never heard of Von Whele's death. I didn't get a hint of the sale." "Nor I," replied Nevill. "It's a queer business. I thought the paragraph would interest you. The sale continues do you think of running over to Amsterdam?" "No; I shan't go.
They are the proper persons to utilize the information," assented Jack. "It should not be made public." "I never knew that a copy of Von Whele's picture was in existence," said Mr. Lamb. "I need hardly ask if it is a faithful one." "I am afraid it is," Jack replied, smiling.
On a corner of the Boulevard St. Michel and a cross street there is a brasserie beloved of artists and art students, and slightly more popular with them than similar institutions of the same ilk in the Latin Quarter. Here, one hazy October evening, nine months after Mr. Von Whele's hurried departure from Paris, might have been found Jack Clare. Tête-
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