despatches. The first from the chief of police of New Orleans:

"'Lely portrait discovered in pawn-shop. Officer Smith goes North to-night to return property and claim reward. J. H. BOWEN."

The other from Pittsburg, in substantially the same language, reports the finding of the portrait of the 'Red Duchess' in a private gallery. This fourth picture is also on its way to New York for identification."

We all looked at one another, Blake the picture of puzzled anger and disappointment. "Which is the true picture?" asked the chief. "Mr. Indiman, I should be glad of your opinion."

Indiman, who had been examining the canvas held by Stone, answered quickly: "Neither of these, and it is more than probable that the other two are also copies by the same hand. Wonderfully well done, too, but the study of portraiture is a hobby of mine; I have even contemplated a monograph on the subject, or, more particularly, a hand-book to the smaller galleries and private collections. But I doubt if I ever do it now," he concluded, meditatively.

"The 'Red Duchess'?" persisted the chief.

"Of course, I know it perfectly. I won't bore you with technical explanations, but on the back of the stretcher is the address of the American art dealer from whom the original canvas was purchased. That should be enough."

It was as Indiman said; each of the canvas stretchers carried a small gummed label, the address of a Fulton Street art-supply shop.

"That settles the question," remarked the chief of detectives. "I may say finally that I have this cable from the Minister of Police at St. Petersburg, communicated to me through the Russian Consul-General:

"'Lely portrait recovered and replaced in the gallery at the Hermitage. Withdraw published reward.

"'(Signed) SOBRIESKA.'

"A queer piece of business; but this appears to be the end of it," commented the chief. "Needless to say, gentlemen, that you are at liberty to depart. My apologies for the annoyance to which you have been subjected."

We all bowed and withdrew to the anteroom. Blake, blushing redly, came up to Indiman; he began to apologize, stuttering pitiably, but Indiman cut him short.

"Call up the coach and offer the driver extra fare for the best time his horses can make to this address." He scribbled the name of the street and the house number on a leaf torn from his note-book and handed it to Blake. "Yes, you can come along if you like; it may be the big thing yet."

As the carriage rolled along Indiman vouchsafed certain explanations.

"As I have already told you," he began, "I bought the picture from a small dealer in the Bowery. I happened to notice it in his window, and, the 'Red Duchess' being one of the half-dozen superlative portraits of the world, I was naturally interested. It was certainly a fine copy, and I was pleased to get it so cheaply.

"Now there were two or three circumstances connected with my find that afterwards struck me as peculiar. In the first place it is well known that permission to copy any of the pictures at the Hermitage Gallery is very rarely given, and the authorities are particularly averse to having reproductions made of the Lely portrait. Secondly, why were the edges of the canvas so curiously serrated, giving the picture the look of having been hastily cut away from its frame? And, finally, where and when had this copy been made? for the label of the Fulton Street art dealer on the back bore the date 1903, and this was the 2d of February in the same year. Obviously impossible that the artist could have gone to Russia, painted the picture, and returned with it to New York in a little over a month.

"Two days later I was walking up Fourth Avenue, through the district affected by the curio and old-furniture dealers, and I discovered a replica of my 'Red Duchess' hanging in a shop-window. In every respect identical, you understand, the two pictures were unquestionably the work of the same hand. Whose hand?

"Do you remember, Thorp, the name of Clive Richmond? Well, for a year or two he was the favorite painter of women's portraits here in New York, hailed as genius and all that. Then suddenly his work began to fall off in quality; his failures became egregious, and his clients left him. Shortly after he disappeared; it was the common report that his misfortunes had affected his reason; there were even hints at suicide. That was some four or five years ago, and whatever the secret may be it has been kept faithfully.

"At least I had solved a portion of the problem—it was Clive Richmond and no other who had painted my copy of the 'Red Duchess.' How do I know? Well, with the expert it is a matter partly technical but more largely intuitive. How do you recognize a friend's face? How does the bank clerk detect the counterfeit bill?

"Now this second copy bore the same ear-marks as the one in my possession—the edges of the canvas marred and jagged, the Fulton Street label on the back. What was this mystery?

"Mystery—yes, and behind it the shadow of a crime, of a human tragedy. Who was to lift the veil? There was but one man—Clive Richmond—who could answer my question; and where was Clive Richmond? A week later I found still a third copy of my 'Duchess' over on Sixth Avenue. I had left my purse at home that morning, and when I went back the next day to buy the picture it was gone—sold to a stranger. Did I say that I had missed getting possession of the second picture through the same sort of contretemps? I never saw either of them again.

"I had written to a friend in Petersburg to make certain inquiries for me, and his answer confirmed my suspicions. The 'Red Duchess' was not hanging in its accustomed place at the Hermitage; it was in process of renovation, according to a statement made by the director of the gallery.

"That was enough for me. The portrait had been stolen and was probably in New York at this very moment. Where? Let me first find Clive Richmond, and I must be quick about it, for once the secret of the theft got out the detectives would not be long in rounding up the various purchasers of those wonderfully accurate copies. This morning the cable brought the news, and at dinner-time Mr. Blake's card was presented to me. Quick work, Mr. Blake; I congratulate you.

"Here is the letter that I received just before we left my house; you remember that it had come in the evening mail and been overlooked. I will read it.

"'DEAR INDIMAN,—There's more in the art business than can be squeezed out of a color tube, isn't there? But I have the secret now; it was given me by Lely himself—no less. What a pity it is that I shan't have the chance to use it, but you and the cognoscenti can fight it out together. You might bury me decently if you like; you ought to be willing to do that much, seeing that your critical pronouncements have been so amply vindicated.

C. R.

"'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