The Madonna of the Blackbird

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Donaque, the Detective, discovers the Fate  of the stolen Masterpiece }

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ONSIEUR, the ‘Madonna of the Blackbird’ has been stolen,” said Dupré.

He spoke with a certain hesitation, as if anticipating that even Donaque, the most broad-minded student of crime in France, who regarded nothing as impossible, might question the strict accuracy of his statement. Dupré would not have blamed him, either. Steal the “Madonna of the Blackbird”? One might as well steal the Arc de Triomphe, or the Tomb of Napoleon, or the head waiter at Ciro’s.

“What did you say?” asked the detective, glancing up quickly from Le Matin, which he had propped between a microscope and a colored photograph of a pansy-bed showing the imprint of a lady’s foot, size 2$1/2$B. “What did you say?” he repeated, putting down his coffee-cup. It was the nearest approach to utter collapse from surprise that he had ever exhibited.

“I said, M’sieu, that, astonishing as it is to relate, the ‘Madonna of the Blackbird’ has been stolen.”

The words had hardly passed his lips before an electric annunciator on the wall began to buzz and a little bell gave a single stroke. Then, with a click and a flop, there shot out of a curved tube above the desk and into a wire basket, a small brass cylinder. Donaque unscrewed it with accustomed ease and removed a thin blue paper, which he spread out in front of him. It contained a message of but nine words, and the ink was still damp:

“So I see,” replied Donaque, resuming his coffee-cup.

Suddenly, unannounced, a telegraph receiver began ticking on a side table.

“The Prefecture,” remarked Dupré.

“Yes,” commented Donaque, “the ‘Madonna of the Blackbird ’ has been stolen again. As usual, the pneumatic has beaten the telegraph. What a fuss they are all making, and why do they bother me?”

This query was not a bid for the satisfaction of a personal egotism, for Donaque had none. He was one of the most matter-of-fact persons alive. It was but the mild protest of a man already overloaded with work—he cared for nothing else, and they all knew it. And that was exactly why they, whoever they were, instantly informed a bourgeois little man who did not know a Rembrandt from a Dubonnet poster-lithograph, that the most famous picture in the world had disappeared.

For a hundred years, the “Madonna of the Blackbird” had hung on the same spot in the Salon d’Apollo of the National Institute of Art, where Napoleon had placed it after having sacrilegiously pilfered it from the private collection of the Pope.

For a century the entrancing, innocent, girlish face had smiled down through a lane of dancing motes in the diluted sun shine of the gallery upon millions of French men, Germans, and Americans; of Jews, Gentiles, and agnostics; of Catholics and Protestants, each one of whom, whatever his philosophy or creed, had rendered full-hearted homage to Raphael’s inspired vision of maternal love. And at the Virgin’s feet, between the laughing Christ-Child and the pensive little St. John, fluttered a fledgling blackbird, just able to fly.

Waterloo, the coup d'état of Napoleon Third, and the Commune, had not disturbed the serenity of her court or the loyalty of her devoted subjects. Daily in crowds they had paid their devotion and gone away with a dimness in their eyes and a strange swelling in their breasts that for some peculiar reason made them throw all their coppers into the hat of the well-fed professional mendicant at the door, who shared profits equally with the five gendarmes on duty there.

And now even greater crowds gathered in the identical place to stare in wonder at a square green spot on the wall of the Salon d’Apollo where the “Madonna” had hung. For she was gone. The café crowds might curse and gesticulate, frenzied directors of the Institute might rush frantically from one office of direction to another, and question and cross-question equally excited guardians and attendants; the newspapers might rave at such a national calamity; the nations gasp at a carelessness so characteristic of a hysterical people—in short, the world might be in a perfect bedlam about it; but the fact would remain—all that was left of the priceless masterpiece was a green spot on an otherwise shabby wall.

At first, no explanation of the picture’s disappearance was forthcoming from the dumbfounded directorate. It was announced that a most exhaustive investigation was being conducted, which must be finished before the proper elucidation could be proclaimed. The public might rest assured that the picture would be recovered and the guilty parties horribly punished.

Perhaps it had not been stolen at all! For of what use would it be to anybody? It could not by any possibility be sold, save perhaps as a copy of itself, for a mere trifle. It would be like trying to dispose of the Great Seal of England, the Rosetta Stone, or a particularly notorious white elephant. The thief would have only the picture for his pains, and what pleasure could a thief take in a picture?

Yet, undeniably there had been and was a thief, just as assuredly as there had been and, it was to be hoped, still was a “Madonna of the Blackbird.”

The most extraordinary rumors got afloat and gained an even more extraordinary credence, of which perhaps the most startling was to the effect that the French government, finding itself in need of funds, had surreptitiously disposed of the picture to an American collector for the monstrous sum of fifteen million francs. Nothing was too preposterous to be believed, since there was nothing conceivable more preposterous than that the picture had been stolen at all—and that was true.

In due course, the results of the official inquiry were published, and a storm of rage and indignation swept over Christendom when it was learned that there was no spectacular explanation at all, but that two thieves disguised as workmen had simply unhooked the picture and walked away with it in plain sight of the custodians.

They had either actually been employed in making some repairs in an adjoining salon to that in which the “Madonna” had been hung, or had pretended to be so. It seemed quite impossible to discover which was the case, since there were in fact workmen of various sorts always employed in the building. Pictures frequently were removed by the order of the two chief directors, to be varnished, re-glassed, or examined for some official purpose.

The theft had occurred at the noon hour, when no visitors were in the galleries, and several persons had seen the men with the picture. One of them had closed the door into the Salon d’Apollo behind him and removed the handle, with the result that the room could not be opened for a couple of hours after the regular time; and even then the absence of the picture occasioned no comment and the theft was not discovered until the following morning.

The four custodians assigned to duty at the Salon admitted that no order had been presented to any one of them for the picture’s removal, and each took refuge in the claim that he supposed the necessary permission had been procured in the regular and proper fashion from one of his comrades. Yet no one of them had any definite recollection of seeing any workman carrying a picture—that was the strangest part of the affair. Two thought that they had caught a glimpse of workmen with something wrapped in a newspaper come out of the Salon—that was all they could say. The others had seen nothing at all. Anyhow, it was lunch-time, and their attention had naturally been distracted.

It was simply a case of colossal neglect, carelessness, and stupidity.

For weeks the police of Paris hounded every person carrying anything that looked like a picture, and arrested scores of innocent citizens who possessed copies of the famous masterpiece.

Then clamor began to demand a scapegoat. The guilty attendants had been summarily discharged, and it was clear that there was no use pummeling a few dunderheads, anyway; but the opinion was widely expressed that the entire directorate, or at least the two chief directors, should be made to resign. Now these positions were sinecures, carrying large salaries, and none of the gentlemen in question cared to give up his place. The government, however, felt that something drastic should be done, for an election was not far off. The loss of the picture might become an issue.

And yet, curiously enough, in spite of the immediate message which he had received, Donaque had heard nothing further, officially, about the matter. However, he was very busy at the moment and could hardly have looked into it had he been requisitioned to do so, for he was working upon a blood test to determine the legitimacy of the alleged crown prince of a native African state under the suzerainty of France.

Then, late one evening, a code message from the Minister of the Interior directed him to call, without delay, at the house of the Director-in-Chief of the National Institute of Art.

He found that gentleman in a state of intense indignation as a result of the public demand for his resignation.

“Do you understand, M’sieu,” he exclaimed, in tones that ordinarily would have indicated the high esteem in which he held himself, “that my professional and official position are now made actually to hang upon the recovery of this picture in whose disappearance I am no way concerned and for which I am in no way responsible? To be sure, it is a loss to the world of art, but to blame respectable men! Well, the President of the Republic has suggested that you may be of assistance. But you must understand at once that I have left no stone unturned. I have caused every clue, no matter how slight, to be run down. I have used my utmost endeavors—and they have not been trifling—in the affair.”

He puffed out his cheeks and helped himself to a cigar from a box beside him without offering one to the detective.

“And you are entirely satisfied with the result of the official investigation?” asked Donaque respectfully.

“Satisfied? Absolutely. I conducted it myself,” returned the official.

“Of course—of course!” hastily threw in Donaque. “You feel confident of the integrity of the attendants?” he added.

“Entirely so. They are all honorable fellows—most of them appointees of my own.”

Donaque with difficulty swallowed a smile that took effect only below his waistcoat. “So that it is quite out of the question that there has been any collusion—an ‘inside’ affair?” he inquired with the greatest deference.

“Utterly! The picture was stolen by thieves disguised as workmen. That has been demonstrated.”

“Quite so!” nodded Donaque. “And what is your theory as to the matter?”

“At present I am inclined to the belief,” returned the director with conclusiveness, “that some collector has caused the picture to be stolen simply for the gratification of his own private esthetic taste.”

“In that case it will hardly be recovered,” remarked Donaque.

“That is precisely what I told the President of the Republic this very afternoon,” pronounced the other, as if that ought to be quite enough to satisfy anybody.

“Pardon me, M’sieu,” continued Donaque after a moment’s pause. “Did you yourself ever issue a permit for the removal of this particular picture?”

The director turned an apoplectic purple. “I?” he almost shouted. “I? Never, M’sieu!”

Donaque merely shrugged his shoulders. “It occurred to me, as you have suggested, that it would be singularly profitless for any one to go to the trouble of stealing such a work of art, and that possibly” He raised his eyebrows.

“No one is allowed to issue permits except myself and my colleague, M. Fournier,” snapped the official.

“And he?” inquired Donaque.

“Is above reproach!” finished the director.

“Then we are as much in the dark as ever,” answered the detective. “However, if you will permit me to examine the report of the investigation, I will see if anything occurs to me.”

The official gave him a couple of pudgy fingers. “I can hardly expect you to shed much light on the affair,” said he, bowing the detective stiffly out.

“Such men,” commented Donaque to himself as he put on his hat outside, “are of value only to add to the gaiety of the French nation!”

It was eight days later when Donaque, sitting in his study, pressed a button at his side and Dupré entered, clad in the blue blouse of a Paris working man.

“I have looked over the official report,” remarked his master shortly. “Now to the cast of the comedy. Have you studied the record of the managing director?”

“Yes, M’sieu,” replied Dupré. “He can be eliminated. He secured his position and his ribbon of the Légion d’Honneur through the activities of his wife, who was a niece of the Deputy Abbe. He is a pompous fool—and too stupid to be successfully dishonest. Besides, he has money of his own.”

“And the discharged attendants? The custodians?”

“It was very difficult,” answered Dupré, whose eyes looked very tired. “They are scattered to the four winds of heaven. They all had lived in Paris, of course, but now, strangely enough, they are all over France—in Saumur, Marseilles, Rheims, and even in Caen. I have been traveling day and night, and drinking in pot-houses the balance of the time.”

“I trust you have drunk to some purpose,” smiled Donaque.

“M’sieu shall judge for himself,” answered Dupré. “They are all human oxen, lazy, ignorant, fog-brained, and with a taste for absinthe. They will probably remain so, since each” he paused, while Donaque pierced him with a glance—“each is to receive by mail from an anonymous source, while he remains in seclusion, a monthly money-order for five hundred francs.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Donaque. “And of course each money-order is mailed from a different office by an unknown person.”

“Exactly.”

“And now these—oxen, are grazing and drinking up their five hundred francs?”

“So I found them.”

“Marvelous stupidity!” muttered Donaque, but he did not state to whom the stupidity might belong. “And the public? I have been in Tunis and am behind the times,” he explained.

“The public are as rampant as ever, and the Paris papers are insisting on the resignation of the entire directorate.”

Donaque turned to his papers. “That is all for the present,” said he. “You need sleep.”

It was just four by the clock on the façade of the Gare des Invalides when a disreputable-looking cabby, driving a still more disreputable taxi-victoria to which was harnessed a raw-boned scarecrow of a horse, pulled up to the curb in front of No. 4 Place du Palais Bourbon, across the Seine. The blazing sun of a late spring afternoon set the pools of rain-water steaming on the concrete and made the little square reek like a Turkish bath. Likewise it made the disreputable cabby thirsty, so that he got out and strolled, whip in hand, to the buffet at the corner.

“Give me a bock, if you please, mademoiselle,” he muttered thickly, throwing down a sou.

The girl dipped up a tumbler of beer from a frothing tub behind the bar and slapped it down on the marble counter.

“By the way, how is my old friend Evègne, the concierge at Numéro Quatre?” he asked, holding the bock to his lips.

“Evègne?” she retorted, “Evègne? There is no such person at Numéro Quatre. The concierge there is named Badoit.”

“You don’t say,” mumbled Donaque. “I could have sworn Evegne was at Numéro Quatre!”

He set down the bock and zigzagged back to where the horse stood with its head between its legs. The door of No. 4 was open, and a man in a white apron leaned outside, wiping his forehead.

“It’s a devil of a day, M’sieu Badoit,” said Donaque, mopping his temples with a red handkerchief.

“You may well say that!” replied the other, who, being a concierge, was well known to hundreds of cabbies. “It makes everybody so nervous.”

“How is M. Fournier these days?” continued Donaque. “I suppose the loss of the picture has upset him a great deal. They say he knows more than he tells, eh?”

“Nonsense!” replied the other. “He is worried to death about it. Why, he hardly ever leaves the house now. Madame Fournier is the only one who goes out at all. Ah, there she is coming now. Perhaps you will get a fare.”

Donaque walked back to the cab and jerked up the head of the horse, which was trying to reach a lemon-peel in the gutter. Out of the tail of his eye he saw a smartly arrayed woman emerge from the door and address a word or two to the concierge. The latter whistled, and the detective touched his hat and clucked to the horse as the woman came across the sidewalk, holding her skirt in her hand. Donaque leaned down toward her, and found himself looking into a pair of large, sensuous black eyes set far apart in one of those strange, pale faces with scarlet lips one so often sees among Parisian women.

But Madame Fournier’s face was different from all others Donaque had seen, for the high cheek-bones, broad, low forehead and heavy features had a sullen beauty that was Russian rather than French. She gave the cabman a quick look that appeared to satisfy her.

“By the hour,” she said. “Take me to the Hôtel Ritz.”

“What have you found out about M. Fournier?” asked Donaque that evening, as Dupré came into the study to make his daily report.

“Monsieur Georges Fournier,” replied Dupré, glancing at a paper, “is forty-five years of age and is an officer of the Légion d’Honneur. He was born at Azay-le-Rideau and studied in the public schools there until he was fifteen years of age, his parents being respectable members of the local bourgeoisie. He soon developed a taste for art, and on the death of his father moved with his mother to Paris and entered the Academy Julien at No. 5 rue de Berri. His talent, while not great, was marked, and his personality, which is charming, made him a general favorite. His success has been due largely to the influence of his social friends. He has traveled a great deal, has written much on matters connected with art, and is considered one of the ablest of European connoisseur's. Two years ago, however, having remained a bachelor up to his forty-third year, he surprised everybody by marrying a Russian actress. I can find out very little about her, except that she is reputed to be extravagant and has something of a temper. Nevertheless, M. Fournier is a devoted husband. They live at No. 4 Place du Palais Bourbon. Everybody speaks in the highest terms of M. Fournier, who is a scholarly man, sensitive, and gentle. I have the honor to hand you a photograph of each.”

He saluted, from force of military habit, and handed his master two cabinet photo graphs, one of a tall, grave, distinguished-looking man, and the other of a woman in fancy costume, the curious, almost leonine, contour of whose features carried a suggestion of something feline, furtive, and not altogether pleasant. It was the face of a woman of will and passion, whose conduct, good or ill, would be determined by the desire she had most at heart.

For a long time Donaque studied these two faces through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “It is not for nothing that one knows the Russians,” he muttered.

At length he took up a copy of Rivolli’s History of Painting and studied with painstaking care the chapter on Raphael, after which he read M. Fournier’s own monograph on the great painter, which described in detail such of Raphael’s masterpieces as were in the National Institute, with a careful analysis of each.

But it was upon the “Madonna of the Blackbird” that M. Fournier lavished the chief effort of his critical talent. There was something almost passionate in the studious man’s adoration of this superlative creation of another’s genius.

Devoting some fifteen pages of his thesis to the purely historic significance of the work, M. Fournier traced the various influences operating upon the artist’s character and style that had produced this unparalleled achievement in religious art. He dwelt on the marvelous harmony of tone, the exquisite coloring of the flesh, the idealism in the faces of the Virgin and the Child, the exquisite expression of maternal love combined with a sad serenity that was wholly divine. And then the fledgling blackbird! That final touch suggestive of human helplessness!

Donaque read this over several times with respectful interest. Then he took out of a drawer at his right, a diagram of the National Institute and an engraving of the “Madonna of the Blackbird.” The latter he considered intently.

“Yes,” at length he remarked judicially, “it certainly does look extraordinarily like a blackbird!”

This was his first and last attempt at artistic criticism.

At four o’clock on the afternoon of the next day, M. Badoit, concierge of No. 4 Place du Palais Bourbon, heard Madame Fournier’s step upon the staircase, and, divining that she was about to make her customary afternoon excursion, thrust his head out of the door and gazed around the square for a cab. None was visible—a somewhat unusual condition of affairs for the Place du Palais Bourbon.

“One little moment, Madame, and I will summon a taxi by telephone,” he said reassuringly.

Four and one-half minutes later, in response to his call, a yellow taxi whirled into the Place du Palais Bourbon, and, after hovering somewhat uncertainly on the corner, wheeled up to the curb. The chauffeur, a smart young fellow with a yellow mustache, gazed at the number over the door and then leaped across the sidewalk.

“Drive me, if you please, to the Hôtel Ritz,” said Madame Fournier.

That evening Donaque spent in a careful study of color photography.

At three-thirty the following afternoon, there was the usual line of dilapidated cabs drawn up on the farther side of the Place du Palais Bourbon, their drivers, with a single exception, being engaged in an excited discussion of the theft of the great picture, of which none of them had even heard until its disappearance.

A shrill whistle from Numéro Quatre brought them all to rigid postures of attention, and the man at the head of the line shambled toward his horse.

“Mais, non, mon ami!” cried Donaque, who was disguised in a black beard and white top hat, “that is my fare, if you please. Go, all of you, and wet your whistles at the buffet!” And he tossed the man a gleaming louis.

“By the hour,” said Madame Fournier. “Drive me to the Hôtel Ritz.”

This time the lackey who assisted her to alight in the Place Vendôme was none other than Dupré, in a stunning livery of light blue with gold cordons upon his breast. Forty minutes later it was also Dupré who called Madame Fournier’s cab, and seized the occasion to make a hurried report to Donaque upon the character of her visit.

“Madame Fournier,” he whispered, “went at once to the winter garden, where a stout lady in very elegant clothes was having afternoon tea. They shook hands, and the stout lady ordered fresh tea and pâtisserie. The band was playing, and I could not hear what they said, but they were both very gay. At the end the stout lady borrowed Madame Fournier’s papier poudré, used a leaf, and gave the rest back. Then they separated. Pst! Here she comes!”

Yes, she was coming. Madame Fournier stood at the carriage entrance of the Ritz while Dupré, in his lackey’s garb, savagely berated his master for not being faster in coming up. Her black eyes were drawn into a frown of what might have been either impatience or anxiety, and she hurriedly placed her foot upon the step. As she did so, her vanity-bag caught upon the handle of the door and dropped from her grasp. With a swiftly muttered imprecation in Russian, Madame Fournier snatched it up before Dupré could perform that service for her.

“Follow the fat woman,” commanded Donaque as Dupré closed the door with a bang. “So?” he repeated to himself with pursed lips, as he piloted the cab across the stream of vehicles and pedestrians in the Place Vendôme. “So?”

From seven until ten that evening Donaque worked upon the royal blood test of the alleged crow-n prince of Tontin-Niger, in company with Dr. Alexis Carrel of the Rockefeller Institute of New York, who happened to be passing through Paris and who found in the detective a singularly congenial mind. But the instant the professor had departed to deliver a lecture at the Academy of Science, Donaque placed the vials upon a shelf and drew from the drawer his bordereau of the “Madonna of the Blackbird,” arranging the papers in a neat row before him.

The typewritten text of the official “investigation” he had no more than glanced at, and it was still bound with a heavy ribbon; but the engraving of the picture and the photographs of Monsieur and Madame Fournier he placed in a conspicuous position. Beside them he laid his notes on color photography, Dupré’s reports, and the diagram of the National Institute. Then he pressed the bell and Dupré made his appearance.

“And the stout comedienne?” inquired Donaque.

“She went directly home,” answered the assistant. “She is the maiden sister of Herr Oberlitz, the resident vice-president of the ‘Deutscher-Französischer Photographien Verein,’ which has an office on the Boulevard des Capucines.”

“Yes,” murmured Donaque. “Somewhat as I expected. By the way, Dupré, have you ever looked into color-photography? It is most interesting.”

The substitute waiter in the winter garden of the Hotel Ritz who brought Fräulein Oberlitz her tea next day was a bungling Swiss who spoke only German, and that with an atrocious Bernese accent. To hear him say “yaw” for “ja” and “nix” for “nein” made one crawl.

But Fräulein Oberlitz did not notice these little details which had been so carefully prepared for her attention. On the contrary, she was extremely nervous and kept ordering more and more tea as the hour grew later, which did not add to her placidity. Her light green dress was a screaming illustration of the German obtuseness to harmony of color, her imitation earrings were as large as sleigh-bells, and her vanity-bag, with its braided red monogram, in her fat and verdant lap, looked like a golfing-flag on a putting-green.

Donaque enjoyed her immensely. He sympathized with the Germans, and in the rôle of Herr Hans Blatt, student at the Sorbonne, mingled with the best Berlin society in Paris, to which, however, Fräulein Oberlitz did not belong.

It was five o’clock before Madame Fournier arrived, and Fräulein Oberlitz did not rise, but gave her a couple of stubby fingers. The Russian’s face was even paler than usual, and her lips were compressed until the rouge showed only as a fine red line parallel with her broad, low brow.

“Please, another cup of tea,” wheezed Fräulein Oberlitz to the Swiss waiter.

Donaque brought the tea and took his stand behind a palm, where he could over hear a part of what they said. But nothing of the slightest importance was discussed. Madame Fournier tasted her tea, made a pretense of nibbling her cake, and murmured a few words about the weather. And the only thing she did with and apparent interest was to smoke one thin Russian cigarette after another without stopping. At the end of half an hour she closed her gold cigarette-case with a snap and placed it in the bag hanging from her chatelaine.

“Pardon, Madame, but could you lend me a papier poudré?” asked Fräulein Oberlitz.

“Certainement, Madame,” responded Madame Fournier, opening her bag and removing a little book of those indispensable papers, such as one buys at any pharmacy.

The fat lady took the little book, dropped it into her own bag, and, removing a leaf, vigorously applied it to her nose. Donaque watched the nose with one eye and the vanity-bag with the other. The lady finished her toilette, and, placing her hand in her bag, returned a book of papier poudré to Madame Fournier.

“Merci bien!” she puffed.

“So?” breathed Donaque.

A humpbacked newspaper-carrier deposited a copy of Le Soir at the apartment of Monsieur Georges Fournier at seven o’clock the following evening. It was late, to be sure, but it was a final edition—an edition of but one copy, which had cost the French Secret Service exactly one thousand francs to prepare, since it contained on its front page an article which appeared in no other copy of the paper, entitled:

Below, a series of significant facts was given implicating M. Fournier, but not mentioning him by name.

At half past seven o’clock, Donaque, in ordinary street dress, walked to the Place du Palais Bourbon and rang the concierge’s bell. M. Badoit opened it himself.

“Bon soir, M’sieu, I have an appointment with M. Fournier,” said the detective, with a slight German accent which might have passed for Russian. “He is expecting me. Shall I go up?”

“Certainly,” answered Badoit, who disliked climbing stairs. “Troisème."

It was growing dark, and dusk had gathered in the corners as Donaque ascended. Never before had he attempted so blind a throw as in the present game, yet never before in his experience had there been a game so difficult to win. He looked carefully at his watch by means of a tiny electric lamp at the end of his pencil. It was the precise moment when M. Fournier should, in the natural course of events, have finished reading the article on the front page of the evening paper, and without delay Donaque pulled the silken cord that communicated with the bell inside the apartment. A moment, and the door was opened by a sallow-faced maid.

“I am from the Institute,” said the detective quickly. “I must see M. Fournier at once. Allow me to pass, if you please.” His manner and tone were authoritative, and the girl drew back.

Donaque stepped noiselessly down the hall, at the end of which glowed the open door of the director’s library. Another moment and he was on the threshold.

M. Fournier, tall, aristocratic, scholarly, stood swaying by his desk beneath the lamplight, Le Soir open upon the floor beside him, a pistol in his hand. His lips twitched, and though he seemed to be gazing into some room beyond, his eyes were unfocused and visionless.

An acute anxiety seized upon Donaque. Could it be that the arrow of his genius would overshoot the target of success? It was not the life of the thief of the “Madonna” that he sought—it was the masterpiece itself. Would his ruse result in the final silencing of the lips which, he believed, alone could tell of its whereabouts?

“M’sieu!” he said hastily. Behind him in the hall he heard the rustle of a woman’s skirt coming toward him.

The pistol fell from M. Fournier’s hand to the thickly carpeted floor.

“M’sieu!” he replied vaguely, in a voice between a gasp and a whisper.

Donaque bowed. He had been in time. The soul of M. Fournier was his. The director must dance to his tune, march to his whistle, perform when he pulled the string. Now he could take his time. Yes, M. Fournier would lead him to the lost picture.

“M’sieu!” said Donaque in a gentle voice. “I am an agent of the Secret Service of France. I have come to tell you that the whereabouts of the ‘Madonna of the Blackbird’ have been ascertained.”

A spasm shook the aristocratic figure before him. Donaque could hear a quick breath close behind his back and the sound of hastily retreating footsteps. Fournier groped with his hands blindly for the armchair beside the table, hesitated like a rocket that has reached its apogee, and then fell heavily with his chin upon the white bosom of his shirt. For a brief interval his eyelids trembled. Then he lay motionless.

Donaque turned quickly. There was no one to be seen, but in the silence he could hear the soft footfalls running down the hall. He had lost the soul of M. Fournier. Had his secret died with him? He turned and leaped down the passage after the footsteps. The sounds ceased abruptly and he stopped. Just before him a door had closed softly—a lock had clicked. With a single movement he flung himself forward against the door and burst it open. Madame Fournier in evening dress stood at her chiffonier, her hand in its right upper drawer. Over her gleaming shoulder her chalky face lowered at him with a look of sullen hatred.

“Pardon, Madame!” he exclaimed, seizing her arm, and removing from her fingers a little book of papiers poudrés. In her eyes hate gave way to grief and despair.

“Monsieur Fournier” began Donaque simply.

The woman’s face quivered behind its mask of white.

“It is I—not he—whom you want!” she cried hysterically. “I am responsible—I alone!”

Donaque opened the papiers poudrés.

On each of the sheets of tissue was traced in German script, so fine as to be almost undecipherable, one or two sentences.

The Russian had thrown herself upon the bed, clasping and unclasping her hands.

On the first sheet he read: “The picture is ruined. We have tried every recipe to restore its tones. Advise us.”

On the second: “We have followed your instructions without success. We have also used antimetric acid and with no result.”

On the third: “Hopeless.”

On the fourth: “Nothing can be done. We dare not retain picture longer and are therefore returning same to you.”

Donaque turned swiftly toward her. Was he too late, then?

“It was I—” she sobbed, rocking herself to and fro and running her hands through her hair until it gave way and fell in a confused mass about her shoulders. “It was I—with my accursed extravagance—my debts—my gambling! Oh, he is so good—so noble! You must save him from dishonor! Promise me that you will place the blame where it belongs—upon me—me—only me! It was I alone who thought of getting money by allowing the photographic company to reproduce the picture in color. Fräulein Oberlitz had promised me 25,000 francs. But my husband refused. He was horrified. Then I forged his name to the order for the picture’s removal.”

She choked, and raised a haggard face toward him. “It was sacrilege, I know it! Twice the ‘Madonna’ has come to me in a dream—looking oh, so sad! Last night she gave me a look as if I had thrust a knife into her breast! I can not bear it. Take me away. Put me in prison! But spare my husband. He is absolutely innocent! I swear it upon the cross—upon my honor, upon anything! It was nobody’s fault but mine. God’s curse was upon the whole deed! No sooner was the glass removed than in one instant the picture slowly began to change color and fall to pieces, and nothing would bring it back. Then I confessed. My husband was beside himself. Of course the officers of the company were terrified and paid the guardians for their silence. But they refused to retain the picture and sent it back, rolled in a bundle of music. Promise me you will exonerate my husband! Do what you want with me, but have mercy upon him!”

She lay there trembling convulsively.

So the picture was there, then—in the apartment! Donaque rushed back to the library, where M. Fournier lay dead in his chair, and glanced rapidly over walls and furniture. There seemed no place where a painting could be hidden. Hastily he pulled out the drawers of the desk, only to find them full of loose papers.

Then his eye caught the heavy writing-blotter, with its corners of Flemish leather. His heart beat more quickly. Gently he rolled back the topmost sheet of blotting-paper. Beneath it lay something like a picture—or what had once been a picture. It was now but a mass of stains and blotches, with here and there only a suggestion of the former marvelous coloring. Huge cracks traversed it, and along them ran black rivers where some chemical had found a channel.

Nothing was left of the great masterpiece, which lay in the lamplight like the decomposing face of some murdered man—a murdered picture!

Nothing? Yes, the fledgling blackbird—a creature, it seemed, of evil omen—fluttered its still glossy wings in a vain attempt to escape the ruin about it, and gleamed with an almost unearthly luster against the disfigured background.