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He smiled, and, brush in hand, continued to paint in rapidly the background of his picture.

“By the way,” I said abruptly, “I am much interested in that beautiful Scotch model who sat for your Ellen Douglas. I have seldom seen a more lovely face.”

Durham glanced up at me, and then resumed his work.

“It is a curious story altogether,” he said. “Lady Faulkner came to see me in the November of last year. She said that she had met my little boy in Regent’s Park, was struck by the likeness between her child and mine; on account of this asked the name of the child, discovered that I was his father (it seems that my fame as a portrait painter had already reached her ears), and she ventured to visit me to know if I would care to undertake an historical picture. I had done nothing so ambitious before, and I hesitated. She pressed the matter, volunteered to sit for the central figure, and offered me £2,000 for the picture when completed.

“I am not too well off, and could not afford to refuse such a sum. I begged of her to employ other and better-known men, but she would not hear of it — she wanted my work, and mine alone. She was convinced that the picture would be a great success. In the end her enthusiasm prevailed. I consented to paint the picture, and set to work at once. For such a large canvas the time was short, and Lady Faulkner came to sit to me three or four times a week. She made one proviso — the child was to be allowed to come freely in and out of the room. She attracted little Robin from the first, and was more than good to him. The boy became fond of her, and she never looked better, nor more at her ease, than when she held him in her arms. She has certainly done me a good service, and for her sake alone I cannot be too pleased that the picture is appreciated.

“Is Lady Faulkner still in town?” I asked.

“No, she left for Scotland only this morning. Her husband’s place, Bram Castle, in Inverness, is a splendid old historical estate dating from the Middle Ages.”

“How is your boy?” I asked. “You keep him in town, I see; but you have good air in this part of London.”

“Yes, capital; he spends most of his time in Regent’s Park. The little chap is quite well, thank you. By the way, he ought to be in now. He generally joins me at tea. Would it worry you if he came in as usual, Head?”

“Not at all: on the contrary, I should like to see him,” I said.

Durham rang the bell. A servant entered.

“You can get tea, Collier,” said his master. “By the way, is baby home yet?”

“No, sir,” was the reply. “I cannot understand it,” added the man; “Jane is generally back long before now.”

Durham made no answer. He returned to his interrupted work. The servant withdrew. Tea was brought in, but there was no sign of the child. Durham handed me a cup, then stood abstracted for a moment, looking straight before him. Suddenly he went to the bell and rang it.

“Tell nurse to bring Master Robin in,” he said.

“But nurse and baby have not returned home yet, sir.”

Durham glanced at the clock.

“It is just six,” he exclaimed. “Can anything be wrong? I had better go out and look for them.”

“Let me go with you,” I said. “If you are going into Regent’s Park, it is on my way home.”

“Nurse generally takes the child to the Broad Walk,” said Durham; “we will go in that direction.”

We entered the park. No sign of nurse or child could we see, though we made several inquiries of the park-keepers, who could tell us nothing.

“I have no right to worry you with all this,” said Durham suddenly.

I glanced at him. He had expressed no alarm in words, but I saw now that he was troubled and anxious, and his face wore a stern expression. A nameless suspicion suddenly visited my heart. Try as I would, I could not shake it off.

“We had better go back,” I said; “in all probability you will find the little fellow safe at home.”

I used cheerful words which I did not feel. Durham looked at me again.

“The child is not to me as an ordinary child,” he said, dropping his voice. “You know the tragedy through which I have lived?”

“Dufrayer