I saw Charles prick up his ears, though he took no open notice.  This Maria Vanrenen, as it happened, was a remote collateral ancestress of the Vandrifts, before they emigrated to the Cape in 1780; and the existence of the portrait, though not its whereabouts, was well known in the family.  Isabel had often mentioned it.  If it was to be had at anything like a reasonable price, it would be a splendid thing for the boys (Sir Charles, I ought to say, has two sons at Eton) to possess an undoubted portrait of an ancestress by Rembrandt.

Dr. Polperro talked a good deal after that about this valuable find.  He had tried to sell it at first to the National Gallery; but though the Directors admired the work immensely, and admitted its genuineness, they regretted that the funds at their disposal this year did not permit them to acquire so important a canvas at a proper figure.  South Kensington again was too poor; but the Doctor was in treaty at present with the Louvre and with Berlin.  Still, it was a pity a fine work of art like that, once brought into the country, should be allowed to go out of it.  Some patriotic patron of the fine arts ought to buy it for his own house, or else munificently present it to the nation.

All the time Charles said nothing.  But I could feel him cogitating.  He even looked behind him once, near a difficult corner (while the guard was actually engaged in tootling his horn to let passers-by know that the coach was coming), and gave Amelia a warning glance to say nothing committing, which had at once the requisite effect of sealing her mouth for the moment.  It is a very unusual thing for Charles to look back while driving.  I gathered from his doing so that he was inordinately anxious to possess this Rembrandt.

When we arrived at Lewes we put up our horses at the inn, and Charles ordered a lunch on his wonted scale of princely magnificence.  Meanwhile we wandered, two and two, about the town and castle.  I annexed Lady Belleisle, who is at least amusing.  Charles drew me aside before starting.  “Look here, Sey,” he said, “we must be very careful.  This man, Polperro, is a chance acquaintance.  There’s nothing an astute rogue can take one in over more easily than an Old Master.  If the Rembrandt is genuine I ought to have it; if it really represents Maria Vanrenen, it’s a duty I owe to the boys to buy it.  But I’ve been done twice lately, and I won’t be done a third time.  We must go to work cautiously.”

“You are right,” I answered.  “No more seers and curates!”

“If this man’s an impostor,” Charles went on—­“and in spite of what he says about the National Gallery and so forth, we know nothing of him—­the story he tells is just the sort of one such a fellow would trump up in a moment to deceive me.  He could easily learn who I was—­I’m a well-known figure; he knew I was in Brighton, and he may have been sitting on that glass seat on Sunday on purpose to entrap me.”