I imagine it is locked up in one of these things," went on Blunt, pointing towards the end of the studio where amongst the monumental presses of dark oak lurked the shy dummy which had worn the stiff robes of the Byzantine Empress and the amazing hat of the "Girl," rakishly.

I wondered whether that dummy had travelled from Paris, too, and whether with or without its head.

Perhaps that head had been left behind, having rolled into a corner of some empty room in the dismantled Pavilion.

I represented it to myself very lonely, without features, like a turnip, with a mere peg sticking out where the neck should have been.
And Mr.Blunt was talking on.
"There are treasures behind these locked doors, brocades, old jewels, unframed pictures, bronzes, chinoiseries, Japoneries." He growled as much as a man of his accomplished manner and voice could growl.

"I don't suppose she gave away all that to her sister, but I shouldn't be surprised if that timid rustic didn't lay a claim to the lot for the love of God and the good of the Church.