"And you will receive him at four o'clock?" "Yes, at four o'clock," answered Gregg, his eyes still on the canvas. Again the little man's head bent low as he backed from the room. There was no need of further talk. What Adam Gregg meant he said, and what he said he meant. As he reached the velvet curtain through which he had entered, he stopped. "And now will you do something for me?" Gregg lifted his chin with the movement of a big mastiff throwing up his head when he scents danger. "I was waiting for that; then there is a string to it?" he laughed. The little man reddened to his eyebrows. The fish had not only seen the hook under the bait, but knew who held the line. "No, only that you come with me to Schenck's to see a portrait by Gilbert Stuart," he pleaded. "I quite forgot--it is not often I do forget; I must be getting old. It's to be sold to-morrow; Mr. Morlon will buy it if you approve; he said so. I'm just from his house." "I have a sitter at three." "Yes, I know, but you always have a sitter. You must come--it means something to me. I'll go and get a cab. It will not take half an hour. It is such a beautiful Stuart. There's no doubt about it, not the slightest; only you know Mr. Morlon, he's very exacting. He says, 'If Mr. Gregg approves I will buy it.' These were his very words." Gregg laid down his brushes. Little men like the one before him wasted his time and irritated him. It was always this way--some underhand business. Then the better side of him triumphed. "All right!" he cried, the old sympathetic tone ringing out once more in his voice. "Never mind about the cab; I need the air and the walk will do me good; and then you know I can't see Mr. Morlon swindled," and he laughed merrily as he looked quizzically at the dealer. * * * * * The entrance of the distinguished painter into the gallery of the auctioneer with his quick, alert manner and erect, military bearing, the Legion of Honor in his lapel, soon attracted attention. Schenck came up and shook Gregg's hands cordially, repeating his name aloud so that every one could hear it--especially the prospective buyers, some of whom gazed after him, remarking to their fellows, as they shielded their lips with their catalogues: "That's Gregg!"--a name which needed no further explanation. "I have come to look at a Stuart that Mr. Morlon wants to buy if it is genuine," said Gregg. "Tell me what you know about it. Where did it come from?" "I don't know; it was left on storage and is to be sold for expenses." "Is it to be sold to the highest bidder?" "No, at private sale." "Where is it?" "There--behind you." Gregg turned and caught his breath. Before him was a portrait of a young woman in an old-fashioned gown, her golden hair enshrining a face of marvellous beauty, one long curl straying down a shoulder of exquisite mould and finish, the whole relieved by a background of blossoms held together in a quaint earthen jar.