I assented. “The Bartley Reynolds seemed too good an opportunity to miss, especially as the French government was after it. I think we got it cheap--“ “_Connu, connu_” said Crozier pleasantly. “I know all about the Reynolds. It was the biggest kind of a haul and I congratulate you. Best stroke of business we’ve done yet. But tell me about the other picture--the Rembrandt.” “I never said it was a Rembrandt.” I could hardly have said why, but I felt distinctly annoyed with Crozier. “Of course not. There’s ‘Rembrandt’ on the frame, but I saw you’d modified it to ‘Dutch School‘; I apologize.” He paused, but I offered no explanation. “What about it?” he went on. “Where did you pick it up?” As he leaned to the flame of the cigar-lighter his face seemed ruddy with enjoyment. “I got it for a song,” I said. “A thousand, I think?” “Have you seen it?” I asked abruptly. “Went over the place this afternoon and found it in the cellar. Why hasn’t it been hung, by the way?” I paused a moment. “I’m waiting--“ “To--?” “To have it varnished.” “Ah!” He leaned back and poured himself a second glass of Chartreuse. The smile he confided to its golden depths provoked me to challenge him with-- “What do you think of it?” “The Rembrandt?” He lifted his eyes from the glass. “Just what you do.” “It isn’t a Rembrandt.” “I apologize again. You call it, I believe, a picture of the same period?” “I’m uncertain of the period.” “H’m.” He glanced appreciatively along his cigar. “What are you certain of?” “That it’s a damned bad picture,” I said savagely. He nodded. “Just so. That’s all we wanted to know.” “_We_?” “We--I--the committee, in short. You see, my dear fellow, if you hadn’t been certain it was a damned bad picture our position would have been a little awkward. As it is, my remaining duty--I ought to explain that in this matter I’m acting for the committee--is as simple as it’s agreeable.” “I’ll be hanged,” I burst out, “if I understand one word you’re saying!” He fixed me with a kind of cruel joyousness. “You will--you will,” he assured me; “at least you’ll begin to, when you hear that I’ve seen Miss Copt.” “Miss Copt?” “And that she has told me under what conditions the picture was bought.” “She doesn’t know anything about the conditions! That is,” I added, hastening to restrict the assertion, “she doesn’t know my opinion of the picture.” I thirsted for five minutes with Eleanor. “Are you quite sure?” Crozier took me up. “Mr. Jefferson Rose does.” “Ah--I see.” “I thought you would,” he reminded me. “As soon as I’d laid eyes on the Rembrandt--I beg your pardon!--I saw that it--well, required some explanation.” “You might have come to me.” “I meant to; but I happened to meet Miss Copt, whose encyclopædic information has often before been of service to me. I always go to Miss Copt when I want to look up anything; and I found she knew all about the Rembrandt.” “_All_?”