"He sure can paint!" muttered Funk cryptically.
"He's mixin' somethin' wid his paint that only divils from the Pit can give him," the Irishman declared darkly. He hesitated, then rushed on: "Sor, the night before the poor lad was murthered, there was a fine canvas of Mr. Barclay's cut into ribbons, and Mr. Oakey's prize picture the same. What might that mean, along with the poor lad's bein' killed the next night? An' Silva only gettin' honorable mention last week, where he was lookin' for first prize?"
"Looks as if Silva had a motive," declared Funk as they walked into the barnyard.
Life was stirring normally about the farm now, as if a ban of enchanted silence had been lifted. Funk could see Barclay's bulky body leaning over the valises on the front stoop. He hailed his friend, then asked Mulcahy hastily: "What do the police say?"
"Anny of us might have done it, sor, but the studio was locked from the inside. An' there's no motive. An' they can't figure where the poor lad's blood wint, sor." Back of the simple words pushed a dark significance of terrible things.
"Looks as if there were more here than appears on the surface."
"Right you are, sor. From now on, Tom Mulcahy wears a blessed medal next his hide, day an' night."
Funk met Barclay's welcoming hand with a heartening grip.
"Sorry to have missed you, Funk, but this ghastly tragedy has dislocated all plans. I—I was fond of the boy," groaned Barclay, his face working. "He had a gift, had Harry. I—I was looking forward to what he would do with color in the not far future. And now——" his voice broke.
"Where's my room, Barclay?" Funk gathered up his bags and followed the other painter up the front stairs.
Both men lighted cigarettes in silence. Barclay stared abstractedly from the window, while Funk unpacked rapidly, puffing clouds of smoke about himself as he tossed shirts, underwear, ties, into the open bureau drawers.
"I want to know how Silva's painting got into your studio," he said at last, with an air of relief as he finished his work.
"So you are taking that attitude?" Barclay asked, his eyes heavy.
Funk did not attempt to evade the implied issue. "Anybody but a crass, materialistic jackass would," he responded quietly.
"I didn't know you went in for that sort of thing. I've no time for anything but painting. Just making a living takes most of my time these days, Funk."
The younger man's eyes snapped. "A very little suffices for me. I'm too fascinated with studying the truths underlying the illusions of material existence. Not that I've gotten very far, but what I know, I know."
"Then perhaps you can say what's unnatural about poor Harry's death? I know there's—something wrong about it."
"Something wrong!" echoed the younger man thoughtfully. "Yes, there's something wrong—and uncanny—about this lad's death. As to its being unnatural, there are many strange and little-known laws operating along lines so new to us——" He broke off there, his expression clearing as if an illuminating idea had suddenly clarified the situation for him. "I believe the poor chap's death is due to an extremely interesting example of the transference of an evil will-to-power."
Barclay wheeled from the window, say-
