“Picking up things to sell here, I suppose. Spain used to be a great place for furniture and stuffs; I've got a lot of them still--bought a whole chest of embroideries once in Seville, or rather, at that hospital where the big Murillo hangs. You must know that picture--Moses striking water from the rock--best thing Murillo ever did.” Felix remembered it, and he also remembered many of the important pictures in the Prado, especially the great Velasquez and the two Goyas, and that head of Ribera which hung on the line in the second gallery on the right as you entered. And before the two enthusiasts were aware of what was going on around them, Masie and Fudge had slipped off to dine upstairs with her father, Felix and the garrulous old painter still talking--renewing their memories with a gusto and delight unknown to the old artist for years. “And now about that frame!” the gnome at last found time to say. “I've got so little money that I'd rather swap something for it, if you don't mind. Come down and see my stuff! It's only in 10th Street--not twenty minutes' walk. Maybe you can sell some of my things for me. And bring that blessed little girl--she's the dearest, sweetest thing I've seen for an age. Your daughter?” Felix laughed gently. “No, I wish she were. She is Mr. Kling's child.” “And your name?” “O'Day.” “Irish, of course--well, all the same, come down any morning this week. My name is Ganger; I'm on the fourth floor--been there twenty-two years. You'll have to walk up--we all do. Yes, I'll expect you.” Kling, whom Felix consulted, began at once to demur. He knew all about the building on 10th Street. More than one of his old frames--part of the clearing-out sale of some Southern homestead, the portraits being reserved because unsalable--had resumed their careers on the walls of the Academy as guardians and protectors of masterpieces painted by the denizens of this same old rattletrap, the Studio Building. Some of its tenants, too, had had accounts with him--which had been running for more than a year. Bridley, the marine painter; Manners, who took pupils; Springlake, the landscapist; and half a dozen others had been in the habit of dropping into his shop on the lookout for something good in Dutch cabinets at half-price, or no price at all, until Felix, without knowing where they had come from, had put an end to the practice. “Got a fellow up to Kling's who looks as if he had been a college athlete, and knows it all. Can't fool him for a cent,” was the talk now, instead of “Keep at the old Dutchman and you may get it. He don't know the difference between a Chippendale sideboard and a shelf rack from Harlem. Wait for a rainy day and go in. He'll be feeling blue, and you'll be sure to get it.” Kling, therefore, when he heard some days later, of Felix's proposed visit, began turning over his books, looking up several past-due accounts. But Felix would have none of it.