But once within the room above, my doubts speedily fled.

There was that in Mr.Gryce's face which anyone acquainted with him could not easily mistake.

Whatever might be the mysterious something which the room contained, it was evidently sufficient in his eyes to justify his whole conduct.
"Now sir," said Mr.Blake, turning upon my superior with his sternest expression, "the room and its contents are before you; what have you to say for yourself." Mr.Gryce equally stern, if not equally composed, cast one of his inscrutable glances round the apartment and without a word stepped before the picture that was as I have said, the only ornamentation of the otherwise bare and unattractive room.
I thought Mr.Blake looked surprised, but his face was not one that lightly expressed emotion.
"A portrait of my cousin the Countess De Mirac," said he with a certain dryness of tone hard to interpret.
Mr.Gryce bowed and for a moment stood looking with a strange lack of interest at the proudly brilliant face of the painting before him, then to our great amazement stepped forward and with a quick gesture turned the picture rapidly to the wall, when--Gracious heavens! what a vision started out before us from the reverse side of that painted canvas! No luxurious brunette countenance now, steeped in pride and languor, but a face--Let me see if I can describe it.

But no, it was one of those faces that are indescribable.

You draw your breath as you view it; you feel as if you had had an electric shock; but as for knowing ten minutes later whether the eyes that so enthralled you were blue or black, or the locks that clustered halo-like about a forehead almost awful in its expression of weird, unfathomable power, were brown or red, you could not nor would you pretend to say.