ONLY middle-aged and elderly people will recall the furore consequent on the theft of the painting of the Duchess of Devonshire out of the famous Gainsborough studio. It was neatly cut from its frame in the small hours, and not the slightest trace of the thieves was ever arrived at. Many were the conjectures as to what could have been the possible motive of the robbery. It was not done for gain — that was certain; such a noted picture could never be sold. Listen to my story:

      I was just at that time working for my living in the "lively village" of London. Till then I had had a comparatively luxurious home; but reverses had come to my parents, as they have done to others from time immemorial.

      "The literary acre," Wellington Street, Strand, was the field of my labours, and a little room leading off Bedford Square was my home for three years. They were, on the whole, very happy days. I don't think I have ever thoroughly enjoyed a meal as I did in those days, with hunger for my sauce and the happy consciousness of having earned my frugal chop. My room (bed and sitting room combined) had originally been intended as a dressing-room to the adjoining apartment into which it led. A needy landlord had blocked up the door of communication, and had let it as an apartment at a rental of five shillings a week. The situation was very good, and the outlook from my window so cheerful, that I put up with the size of my quarters, and managed thus to live three very happy years of girlhood.

      The adjoining room had been empty some weeks. One evening I had returned from work, and after divesting myself of hat, etc., I set my wee tea-kettle as usual to boil on my spirit-lamp. In five minutes I was seated by the open window enjoying my tea on a small round table at my side. "Anne Hereford," by Mrs. Henry Wood, was open on the table. The murmur of the great Metropolis pervaded all.

      All at once a stir attracted me from the adjoining room, and then a voice. Ah! how shall I describe that voice? It was the sweetest, the richest, I have ever heard, yet brimming with gaiety.

      I did not see my neighbours for some days. Mother Eve possessed me, and I questioned my landlady about them. They were two sisters; one was a foreign Countess — that was all she knew. The next day their door was open as I passed lightly up the stairs. Two eager voices exclaimed, "Ah, Max!" and one of the ladies rushed out to embrace me.

      "Pardon, mademoiselle! It is not, then, my nephew, for whom I am looking."

      The speaker's voice was not her only charm; she was beautiful both in face and form — a tall, well-preserved woman, apparently a little over thirty, very fair, with a profusion of straight, light-brown hair. The features were perfect; she reminded me of a picture I had once seen of Marie Antoinette. A woman about fifty, in blue goggles, followed her to the door.

      The sweet-voiced one introduced her to me as her sister. Politeness bid me hide my astonishment. Apart from the great difference in age, one had all the bearing of a patrician, while the other was essentially plebeian. With an interchange of remarks, I left them waiting for Max.

      This introduction led to my knowing them better, and the more I knew, the more was my curiosity and interest aroused.

      Max was a son of the elder lady's. They were both widows. The younger one had lost her husband and large landed estates in the Franco-Prussian War. They had three visitors who were constantly in and out between the hours of 11 a.m. and 12 p.m. The son Max was the most constant of these. In addition, there was a stout little man, rejoicing in the name of Levy, and an old artist who was either a Russian or a Pole. The last-named had a temporary studio in Newman Street. The Countess took, apparently, a great liking to me. Notwithstanding this (quite against my will, too), I could not help entertaining a little doubt of my neighbours. I think it was the dominoes that did it. I could hear the rattling of the dice and merry laughter till as late (or, rather, early) as one or two in the morning, and it grated on my insular prejudices. I made sure they were playing for money.

      One morning my fair-haired friend knocked at my door in tears. Could I lend her half a crown? Her remittance was expected daily — nay, hourly; but she was penniless meanwhile. I felt quite flattered by the appeal. That afternoon was a holiday, and I was invited into the next room to spend the remainder of the day. The Countess was turning and cleaning a gown.

      "This has seen a brighter day," she remarked, with a sigh and "Hélas!" "I have received our beloved Empress Eugénie in it. She and I were like sisters."

      "Now that she is at Chislehurst, could you not go and see her?" I ventured to suggest.

      "Ah, no, no!" she replied, with vehemence; "pride forbids it. Don't you see how we avoid notice, as befits refugees?"

      I had observed that the sisters rarely stirred out in the daytime. Long we talked of their reverses. She wept, and my own eyes quickly responded for very sympathy. Ah, how I silently upbraided myself for having ever doubted her! All this while the elder woman was performing the menial duties of a household, in a room about sixteen feet square, as methodically as though she had been brought up to the work. I noted with a little surprise the younger lady taking her sister to task about some little domesticity in a manner both haughty and dignified that jarred on me for a moment. But she was all sunshine again the next minute, and then the three gentlemen came in to tea, and I was filled with wonderment at the sight of savoury dishes which suggested a good Leamington stove at the very least.

      How clever that Frenchwoman was! There wasn't the vestige of a saucepan in sight. Animated conversation improved all our digestions. After twilight came candles and the interminable dominoes. I asked them to allow me to be a spectator, but five eager voices cried me down.

      "I never play for money," I blushingly disclaimed.

      "Monnaie! Ah, we nevare play for dat," the Countess answered, with her gay laugh.

      It was indeed true that night after night they played on and on into the small hours of the morning for the sheer love of the dice. The French are very simply pleased.

      On telling my uncle, Dr. ——, of my new acquaintances, he advised me to be very careful, and not to be seen abroad with them. However, I was young and trusting, and did not altogether take his advice, for shortly afterwards, when the sisters invited me to take a walk with them in the evening, I accepted the invitation. It was to a Roman Catholic Church in Soho that we wended our way, and when I saw how devout they appeared, all my doubts finally took wing. I pitied and loved my beautiful Countess more every day.

      The next time I went out with them was in day­light. We visited the Newman Street studio, where the artist friend was engaged heart and soul on his canvas. The pictures sent them nearly wild. They were inbred art devotees. During our walk home, the Countess told me that little M. Levy had fallen in love with my Saxon face, and could he hope for a return of affection? I laughed at the idea. I had an ideal then, but he was as unlike M. Levy as May is unlike December. I only once saw him after that. There was some temporary want of money in the next room, and my little fat friend had come to the rescue by lending his good coat of ample broadcloth to the slim nephew Max to deposit pro tem. with an obliging "uncle." M. Levy was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, looking very good-tempered, when I popped my head in, and, hastily apologizing, withdrew.

      They had been my neighbours now for some weeks. Unawares, a little coolness had crept up between us. One evening the two ladies were alone. It seemed so strange to miss the laughing voices and the dice-clatter. About nine o'clock a step ascended the stairs. It was Max. He burst forth in eager tones. I caught the word "Gainsborough." The Countess bid him "talk softly." I thought it very strange, I remember, for he was only talking about a famous picture in a well-known art gallery. I dreamt of the Countess all that night. She appeared in my vision with outstretched finger, and a whispered "Hush! Mees Grey must not hear."

      With the morning disappeared the nasty impression my dream had caused. An early train whirled me off for a three days' visit to some dear friends at Kingston-on-Thames. What a paradise that Kingston home was to me! What friends they were! Yes, tried and true.

      That night the Echo enlivened the tea-table, or, rather, our tea-chat.

      "'One thousand pounds reward!'" read out Mrs. W. "Bless me! there's been a great robbery. The famous Duchess of Devonshire's painting has been neatly cut from the frame between the hours of midnight and five this morning, and there is no trace of the robbers, or the slightest suspicion attaching to anybody, so far."

      I felt everything swimming round, and was quite unable to reply.

      On the third day I returned to the dingy lodgings. I met my landlord in the hall.

      "How is everyone?" I inquired tremblingly, fearing to hear bad news.

      "All going on as usual, Miss Grey. By-the-by, you've lost your neighbours. They left two days ago, and, what is more, they owe me close on twenty pounds."

      He never connected the robbery with the disappearance of the Countess, that was evident.

      "I hope you will eventually get your money," I remarked.

      "Never," he replied savagely. "A ritualistic Cornish parson was up here this morning inquiring for her; he lent her eighty pounds, it seems."

      Back to the lonely room — to the routine of office life. The girl-clerks were talking volubly about the robbery. I fancied they were eyeing me askance, and I crimsoned all over. That night in my quiet room, with the ghosts of the departed dice ringing in my ears, I had a silent cry over my lost friend.

      Later on I penned a letter to Paris making inquiries as to whether certain estates, minutely and graphically described by the Countess as her own, had any existence. They lived, but it was in the fair land of imagination, not in or even near Paris.

      Some time after this we sailed for the Antipodes. Life became too earnest to indulge in much retrospection. But one evening, in 1881, I was rocking the cradle of my firstborn, and my husband was reading aloud. The subject-matter was the mysterious finding of the long-lost picture. It was left (whether purposely or accidentally not known) at some railway-station on the Continent in a waiting-room.

      Possibly a few years later an autobiography may throw a little more light on the subject — somebody may confess. I feel perfectly convinced in my own mind that the agile Max did the skilful, daring fraud. Should he chance ever to read this story at the other end of the world, and should he be innocent of the affair, I can but ask him to forgive me for the suspicion.