Mr. Oxford let his smile go. He had held it for an incredible time. He let it go, and sighed a gentle and profound relief. He had been skating over the thinnest ice, and had reached the bank amid terrific crackings, and he began to appreciate the extent of the peril braved. He had been perfectly sure of his connoisseurship. But when one says one is perfectly sure, especially if one says it with immense emphasis, one always means 'imperfectly sure.' So it was with Mr. Oxford. And really, to argue, from the mere existence of a picture, that a tremendous deceit had been successfully practised upon the most formidable of nations, implies rather more than rashness on the part of the arguer. "But I don't want it to get about," said Priam, still in a savage whisper. "And I don't want to talk about it." He looked at the nearest midgets resentfully, suspecting them of eavesdropping. "Precisely," said Mr. Oxford, but in a tone that lacked conviction. "It's a matter that only concerns me," said Priam. "Precisely," Mr. Oxford repeated. "At least it _ought_ to concern only you. And I can't assure you too positively that I'm the last person in the world to want to pry; but--" "You must kindly remember," said Priam, interrupting, "that you bought that picture this morning simply _as_ a picture, on its merits. You have no authority to attach my name to it, and I must ask you not to do so." "Certainly," agreed Mr. Oxford. "I bought it as a masterpiece, and I'm quite content with my bargain. I want no signature." "I haven't signed my pictures for twenty years," said Priam. "Pardon me," said Mr. Oxford. "Every square inch of every one is unmistakably signed. You could not put a brush on a canvas without signing it. It is the privilege of only the greatest painters not to put letters on the corners of their pictures in order to keep other painters from taking the credit for them afterwards. For me, all your pictures are signed. But there are some people who want more proof than connoisseurship can give, and that's where the trouble is going to be." "Trouble?" said Priam, with an intensification of his misery. "Yes," said Mr. Oxford. "I must tell you, so that you can understand the situation." He became very solemn, showing that he had at last reached the real point. "Some time ago a man, a little dealer, came to me and offered me a picture that I instantly recognized as one of yours. I bought it." "How much did you pay for it?" Priam growled. After a pause Mr. Oxford said, "I don't mind giving you the figure. I paid fifty pounds for it." "Did you!" exclaimed Priam, perceiving that some person or persons had made four hundred per cent. on his work by the time it had arrived at a big dealer. "Who was the fellow?"