And he passed on to the next page—­to the clause in Haydon’s will which runs—­’My dearest wife, Mary Haydon, has been a good, dear, and affectionate wife to me—­a heroine in adversity and an angel in peace.’

‘And he repaid her by blowing his brains out,’ thought Fenwick, contemptuously.  ’But he was mad—­of course he was mad.  We are all mad—­when it comes to this.’

And he turned back, as though in fascination, to the page before, to the last entry in Haydon’s Journal.

  ’21st.—­Slept horribly.  Prayed in sorrow and got
  up in agitation.
  ‘22d.—­God forgive me.  Amen.’

‘Amen!’ repeated Fenwick, aloud, as he dropped the book.  The word echoed in the empty room.  He covered his eyes with his right hand, leaning his arm on the table.

The other hand, as it fell beside him, came in contact with the parcel which was propped against the table.  His touch told him that it contained a picture—­an unframed canvas.  A vague curiosity awoke in him.  He took it up, peered at the address, then began to finger with and unwrap it.

Suddenly—­he bent over it.  What was it!

He tore off the shawl, and some brown paper beneath it, lifted the thing upon the table, so that the light of the one candle fell upon it, and held it there.

Slowly his face, which had been deeply flushed before, lost all its colour; his jaw dropped a little.

He was staring at the picture of himself which he had painted for Phoebe in the parlour of the Green Nab Cottage thirteen years before.  The young face, in its handsome and arrogant vigour, the gypsy-black hair and eyes, the powerful shoulders in the blue serge coat, the sunburnt neck exposed by the loose, turn-down collar above the greenish tie—­there they were, as he had painted them, lying once more under his hand.  The flickering light of the candle showed him his signature and the date.

He laid it down and drew a long breath.  Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he stood staring at it, his brain, under the sharp stimulus, beginning to work more clearly.  So Phoebe, too, was alive—­and in England.  The picture was her token.  That was what it meant.

He went heavily to the door, unlocked it, and called.  The charwoman appeared.

‘Who brought this parcel?’

‘A boy, sir.’

‘Where’s the note?—­he must have brought something with it.’

‘No, he didn’t, sir—­there was no note.’

‘Don’t be absurd!’ cried Fenwick.  ‘There must have been.’

Mrs. Flint, outraged, protested that she knew what she was a-saying of.  He questioned her fiercely, but there was nothing to be got out of her rigmarole account, which Fenwick cut short by retreating into the studio in the middle of it.