He carried his traps to the stoop, crossed the yard to the barnyard, and halloed again. He knew of old where Barclay's studio was, so he set off down the path toward the grateful shade of the woods.
The gray stone walls of the old building soon glinted through the tree trunks and heavy foliage. A strong conviction possessed Funk that Barclay was not within. In fact, he found the studio door padlocked. He noted that the west window was rudely boarded up. He walked around the studio to the north.
Here the trees had been cut down, and the studio wall was entirely of glass. He peered in with deepening curiosity, but apart from the usual litter of easels, painting paraphernalia and accessories, canvases in serried rows against the walls, his attention was almost immediately drawn to a painting propped against the south wall where the full light from the opposite windows poured in revealingly.
"Rum go!" Funk muttered, puzzled. "That never is Barclay's work. And he would never have let a student perpetrate such a monstrosity of line and crude color."
He pressed his face to the glass, cupping it against the outside light.
"That old man," Funk said aloud, amazed, "may be crudely done, but he's also absolutely horrible. His hands—ugh, they're dead hands. Bloodless—waxen—aaarrrgh! Something about the way he's sitting there—drooping as if he hadn't the strength of himself to sit erect, and was being held by something—something without, that you can't see. . . . I don't like the thing. It's ugly. There's—something wrong with it."
He said this last with conviction, and as he exclaimed became aware of another gaze fixed upon himself. He snapped upright and wheeled quickly. Waiting patiently for him to finish his examination of the studio's interior stood a man in patched, stained blue overalls.
"Well?" snapped Funk sharply, a bit taken aback.
"Mr. Barclay's at the house, sor. You're Mr. Funk? I'm Mulcahy, Hoddeston's hired man."
Funk nodded. "All right. I'm coming. How did Mr. Barclay come to miss my train?"
"We was all down to the police station, sor." Mulcahy fell in behind him.
"Police station?" echoed Funk. "What's been going on here?"
"I found Mr. Oakey dead in the studio this mornin', sor."
"What!" Funk whirled and confronted the Irishman.
"There's somethin' wrong in there, sor. I saw blood on the ould divil's beard." The man's voice quavered.
"Snap out of it, Mulcahy. Are you referring to that—picture?"
"I am that, sor."
"Blood on the old man's beard? Ridiculous! I saw none."
Mulcahy insisted stubbornly: "Blood it was, sor. An' the poor young man's was all drained out av him, sor."
Funk stiffened to deep attention. "Ha! This sounds intriguing. Blood on the old man's beard?"
"An' drippin' from his dead fingers, sor. An' not wan dhrop left in the corpse, sor. Blood—all over the dommed ould divil's whiskers, an' his dead fingers, sor. Mary Mother!" Mulcahy crossed himself with pious haste.
"Who did that painting?" Funk demanded, turning again toward the house.
"A mon be the name av Silva, sor. He's afther bein' a cabinet-maker, but he got to thinkin' he cud paint, so he made that beauty back there, divil fly away wid him!"
