N a narrow panel an artist of long ago had left the record of his genius in the portrayal of St. Agnes, a slim little figure with rippled gold hair held about her, garmentwise, by frail white fingers. The composition was crowded with Cæsarean officials in fifteenth-century costume, parading amidst Renaissance architectural perspectives. Yet that small, sad face in its frame of curls dominated the picture like a point of light.
Vincent Lake sighed with satisfaction as he restudied the curious signature, a seal of humility and admiration: “A Pupil of Raphael.”
There was something deeply touching in the signature which left the painter nameless to the greater glory of the master. The critic's heart warmed to that vanished loyalty; he leaned the picture against the wall, and withdrew across the room to squint at its perfect “values.” Then he was torn from his contemplation by the arrival of his crony, Valentine Moldino, the collector.
“What! Another 'Pupil of Raphael'?” his colleague exclaimed. “Mother of God! What a jewel! What line, what composition, what color! A pity the surface is so weathered; however, the tone is golden beyond belief. My dear confrère, I congratulate you; I envy you! Another—that makes seven panels in all, and all of a size. Surely they must have formed some part of a chapel. Yet you have found them in three different cities, Ravenna, Florence, Verona. It is amazing that in all these years no one but you should happen upon them. It can only be that their hiding place has been recently discovered, and it falls to your lot! This one, of course, you will have photographed as appendix to your pamphlet.”
“Of course, it is of the utmost importance—the utmost,” Vincent Lake admitted proudly. “The 'Pupil of Raphael' is, without a doubt, the most important discovery of the last twenty years. I do not except the locating of the Cardoza Fra Angelico of Von Meyers' Rembrandt.”
Moldino nodded agreement.
“It is most curious that you, who give this great gift to Italian art, should be an American. One thinks of Americans as mere purchasers of antiquities, not as connoisseurs.”
Lake preened himself, for he was young and enthusiastic, and praise was sweet.
“This, I think, my friend, will give me the assured position which will enable me to approach Mr. Wilmath. It is a shame that his collection should be so misattributed, so badly arranged. And yet, one does not approach the greatest buyer in the world and tell him that, unless one is the recognized authority.”
“You underestimate your fame, my dear boy,” Moldino assured him genially, as he again approached the panel and lightly touched its surface with a reverent finger. “But you are right, perhaps, to wait until your pamphlets are published before you go to this 'milliard' countryman of yours, The 'Pupil of Raphael' is, indeed, a world find.”
Vincent crossed from the long window overlooking the steep descent of Fiesole, dome-dotted Florence, and the winding Arno. He hesitated a moment, then turned to his friend with suppressed boyishness.
“I've got to tell you,” he announced, taking the older man by the shoulders and whirling him toward the light, “and yet I'd sworn to myself I'd say nothing until I knew positively; but I can't keep the secret. I am on the track of still another!”
“No!” Moldino sat down on a Savonarola chair so hard that it creaked ominously, and he rose again hastily in deference to age.
“Yes,” Lake continued, his eager face flushing with excitement, “in Verona, I am not sure, of course, but from the very slight description of the subject, the number of figures, the architectural background, I have a hope. Think of it! The eighth panel! I am going now; my bag is packed, my conveyance is ordered.”
“Let me not detain you.” The little man nervously began gathering his gloves, hat, and walking stick. “Do you have special stars of fortune in your sky? Eight panels! Mother of Heaven! Believe me, my boy, all my good wishes go with you. Why, soon you will be a millionaire yourself; fifty thousand lire from Barbaroni for the 'St. Luke;' thirty thousand for the 'St. Stephen.' This 'St. Agnes' should surely go to one of the great collections. What fame and what fortune! Addio, my favored of the gods!”
Moldino saw him to the ancient hack which jolted presently into the narrow, tilted street, and he waved farewell,
Vincent Lake gave the direction to the driver, but halfway to his destination he glanced at his watch. His subconscious desire had contrived to allow him the extra quarter of an hour he strove to surprise himself with.
He addressed the cabman almost apologetically: