CHAPTER XIII
WHAT THE ARTIST'S PORTFOLIO REVEALED
The company departed for the village church; and the Baronet, my uncle, and myself, aided by the servants, whose zeal had been stimulated by the promise of a liberal reward to whomsoever should discover the picture, proceeded to search the length and breadth and depth of the Abbey. Every room, including the bedrooms of the guests, was subjected to a careful inspection; places the most unlikely to be selected as the hiding-place of the famous _chef-d'oeuvre_ were examined by keen eyes, but all in vain. We might as well have looked for the Holy Grail, said by poets to have vanished somewhere in this very neighborhood.
Late in the afternoon of the day--it was Christmas Eve--we stood on the terrace overlooking the undulating extent of woodland that formed the grounds of the Abbey. The sun was now low down on the horizon. Its dying splendour tinged with red hues the ivy-mantled Nuns' Tower, that rose in solitary grandeur on one side of the Abbey. The Baronet's eye was resting on this tower, and his thoughts reverted to the tenant of it.
"Angelo can explain the disappearance of the missing picture," he said suddenly.
"You think so?" returned my uncle.
"I am loath to suspect him, but I cannot help thinking that he carried it off in the night."
"He carried it off well in the morning, then," responded my uncle jocularly. "Who would have thought from his surprise and agitation that he himself had removed it!"
"His surprise and agitation were assumed, to disarm suspicion."
"Perhaps. But what is his motive for the removal?"
"From certain things you have told me, I believe he is determined that neither you nor Frank shall see his great masterpiece."
The Baronet's opinion was one that I had long held.
"Why not, in Heaven's name?" cried my amazed uncle.
"Ah, that is a reason best known to himself. I fancy--it seems absurd to say it--that the picture, when seen by you, will reveal something that is entirely passed over by others: something detrimental to himself, I mean--what, I cannot undertake to say."
"What can he have done with it?"
"It is inside that tower," replied the Baronet confidently.
"Why there? Why in existence at all? If he is so anxious, as you say, to prevent us from seeing it, the safe plan would be to destroy it altogether."
"That would be the course of a wise man--yes; but Angelo is a fond parent, you see; his picture is his favourite child, and he cannot bring himself to destroy it. Perhaps he intends after your departure to return it to me uninjured, concocting some cock-and-bull story as to where he found it. I trust to goodness he will do something of the kind," continued the Baronet. "So valuable a thing is no trifle to lose. If I could obtain proof that he _has_ taken it, I would certainly bring him to book before the law."
"Can't we search the tower?" I said; "Angelo is absent."
"Exactly; but he takes care to lock the door every time he leaves it."
"Have you no other keys that will fit the lock?"
"The key of that lock has peculiar wards. There is no other like it in my possession."
"Well, let us go to the tower," I said. "He may for once have left the door unlocked--who knows?"
"Not very likely, but we may try."
The tower, octagonal in shape, was situated at a little distance from the main body of the Abbey, to which it was joined by a covered walk consisting of a wall on one side and a row of pillars on the other. It contained but one story, lighted by a large Gothic casement twelve feet at least from the ground. Access was gained to the tower by a flight of steps surmounted by an oaken door studded with iron nails.
"The Nuns' Tower," I murmured, as we walked down the cloister; "how came the place to receive that name?"
"Tradition says that when this place was a convent, nuns who broke their vow of virginity were tried in this tower by their ecclesiastical superiors--or, if you will, inferiors--and were led hence by a subterranean passage to their doom."
"Which was----?"
"Precipitation down a deep chasm. The book I spoke of last night--a