When she asked this question she was gazing at the portrait of herself.
As a work of art, the painting was a shocking exhibition; as a likeness, it was unmistakable.
"It is," I said, "your very image. Is the portrait of your husband--if that is your husband hanging there----"
She interrupted me with a shudder. "_Hanging_ there, sir?"
"I mean on the wall. It _is_ a picture of Mr. Lemon, I presume."
"Is it as faithful a portrait as your own?"
"It's as like him, sir, as two peas. Egscept----" but she suddenly paused.
"Nothing, sir, nothing," she said hurriedly.
If, thought I, it is as like him as two peas, there must be something extraordinarily strange and odd in Mr. Lemon. That he was not a good-looking man could be borne with; but that, of his own free will, he should have submitted to be painted and exhibited with such a sly, sinister expression on his face, was decidedly not in his favour. With his thought in my mind I turned involuntarily to the evil-looking bird in the glass case, and, singularly enough, was struck by an absurd and fearful resemblance between the bird's beak and the man's face. Mrs. Lemon's eyes followed mine.
"Not long, sir," she replied, and her voice trembled. "About as long as the pictures."
"Did your husband buy it in England? It is a strange bird, and I can't find a name for it."
"Lemon didn't buy it, sir. It was give to him."
I hazarded a guess. "By the artist who painted your husband's portrait?"
Turning from the stuffed bird to the fireplace, I received a shock. In the centre of the mantelshelf was the stone figure of a creature, half monster and half man, with a face bearing such a singular resemblance to Mr. Lemon's and the bird's beak that I rubbed my eyes in bewilderment, believing myself to have suddenly fallen under the influence of a devilish enchantment. But rub my eyes as I might, I could not rub away the strange resemblance. It was no delusion of the senses.
"Was that--that figure, Fanny, given to you by the artist who painted your husband's portrait, and who presented him with that stuffed bird?"
"Yes, sir; he give it to Lemon." And then, in a timorous voice, she asked, "Do you see anything odd in it, sir?"
"It is not only that it's odd," I replied; "but, if you will excuse me for saying so, Fanny, there is really something horrible about it."