On this morning the little man had a Gilbert Stuart for sale, and what was more to the point he had a customer for the masterpiece: Morlon, the collector, of unlimited means and limited wall space, would buy it provided Adam Gregg, the distinguished portrait painter, Member of the International Jury, Commander of the Legion of Honor, Hors Concours in Paris and Munich, etc., etc., would pronounce it genuine. The distinguished painter never hesitated to give his services in settling such matters. He delighted in doing it. Just as he always delighted in criticising the work of any young student who came to him for counsel--a habit he had learned in his life abroad--and always with a hand on the boy's shoulder and a twinkle in his brown eyes that robbed his words of any sting. When dealers sought his help he was not so gracious. He disliked dealers--another of his foreign prejudices. Tender-hearted as he was he generally exploded with dynamic force--and he could explode when anything stirred him--whenever a dealer attempted to make him a party to anything that looked like fraud. He had once cut an assumed Corot into ribbons with his pocket-knife--and this since he had been home in New York, fifteen years now--and had then handed the strips back to the dealer with the remark: "Down in the Treasury they brand counterfeits with a die; I do it with a knife. Send me the bill." The little man, with the cunning of his race, knew this peculiarity, and he also knew that ten chances to one the great painter would receive him with a frigid look, and perhaps bow him out of the door. So he had studied out and arranged a little game. Only the day before he had obtained an order for a portrait to be painted by the best man-painter of his time. The picture was to be full length and to hang in the directors' room of a great corporation. This order he had in his pocket in writing, signed by the secretary of the board. Confirmations were sometimes valuable. As the little man's body neared the great painter's door a certain pleasurable sensation trickled through him. To catch a painter on a hook baited with an order, and then catch a great collector like Morlon on another hook baited with a painter, was admirable fishing. With these thoughts in his mind he rapped timidly on Adam Gregg's door, and was answered by a strong, cheery voice calling: "Come in!" The door swung back, the velvet curtains parted, and the little man made a step into the great painter's spacious studio. "Oh, I have such a fine sitter for you!" he whispered, with his hand still grasping the curtain. "Such a distinguished-looking man he is--like a pope--like a doge. It will make a great Franz Hal; such a big spot of white hair and black coat and red face. He's coming to-morrow and----"