“A dramatic disappearance of that sort is sure to produce a crop of imitations,” said the Journalist.

“It has had a lot of anticipations, for the matter of that,” said the Wine-brother.

“Oh, of course there have been thefts from the Louvre before.”

“I was thinking of the spiriting away of human beings rather than pictures.  In particular I was thinking of the case of my aunt, Crispina Umberleigh.”

“I remember hearing something of the affair,” said the Journalist, “but I was away from England at the time.  I never quite knew what was supposed to have happened.”

“You may hear what really happened if you will respect it as a confidence,” said the Wine Merchant.  “In the first place I may say that the disappearance of Mrs. Umberleigh was not regarded by the family entirely as a bereavement.  My uncle, Edward Umberleigh, was not by any means a weak-kneed individual, in fact in the world of politics he had to be reckoned with more or less as a strong man, but he was unmistakably dominated by Crispina; indeed I never met any human being who was not frozen into subjection when brought into prolonged contact with her.  Some people are born to command; Crispina Mrs. Umberleigh was born to legislate, codify, administrate, censor, license, ban, execute, and sit in judgement generally.  If she was not born with that destiny she adopted it at an early age.  From the kitchen regions upwards every one in the household came under her despotic sway and stayed there with the submissiveness of molluscs involved in a glacial epoch.  As a nephew on a footing of only occasional visits she affected me merely as an epidemic, disagreeable while it lasted, but without any permanent effect; but her own sons and daughters stood in mortal awe of her; their studies, friendships, diet, amusements, religious observances, and way of doing their hair were all regulated and ordained according to the august lady’s will and pleasure.  This will help you to understand the sensation of stupefaction which was caused in the family when she unobtrusively and inexplicably vanished.  It was as though St. Paul’s Cathedral or the Piccadilly Hotel had disappeared in the night, leaving nothing but an open space to mark where it had stood.  As far as was known nothing was troubling her; in fact there was much before her to make life particularly well worth living.  The youngest boy had come back from school with an unsatisfactory report, and she was to have sat in judgement on him the very afternoon of the day she disappeared—­if it had been he who had vanished in a hurry one could have supplied the motive.  Then she was in the middle of a newspaper correspondence with a rural dean in which she had already proved him guilty of heresy, inconsistency, and unworthy quibbling, and no ordinary consideration would have induced her to discontinue the controversy.  Of course the matter was put in the hands of the police, but as far as possible it was kept out of the papers, and the generally accepted explanation of her withdrawal from her social circle was that she had gone into a nursing home.”