Gilead’s natural repugnance for the fellow made him a little short in his answers. His own clear candour never took such offence as it did at those who, experience told him, would be ready to flout him unknown, and to lick his plutocratic boots were he to reveal himself. He had no mercy on such toadeaters, and found any dissimulation, even for the best ends, difficult in their presence. “That remains to see, sir,” he said. “Nothing, I may premise, in the way of loans or accommodations.” “Not?” Mr Colfox, sitting back at his ease, raised his eyebrows and nothing else. “I will come to the point at once,” said Gilead. “I am something of a collector, a virtuoso, and I am told that you possess works, which you may not be unwilling to sell, by the late Auguste Lerroux.” The moneylender pricked up his ears. Here, for the first time, was shadowing itself out a justification of his foresight. His nerve of cupidity thrilled. He must make the best of this chance. He nodded his head agreeably. “You are told,” he said. “May I ask by whom?” “I employ an Art agent and adviser,” said Gilead, frowning over even that harmless prevarication. “I asked you a question, sir. It is immaterial who or what prompted it.” The moneylender recognized an imperious client; he recognized also a patently affluent one. His manner became propitiatory. “Well, it is true,” he said. “I speculate a trifle sometimes in this form of property; but it is hardly worth my while--the profits are so small. However, as it happens, I have a little bust by the master in that safe now, if you would care to look at it. I acquired it only a short time before his death, and it represents, I may say, his finished style. A few other, more important works, are in my possession, if--” “I will look at the bust,” said Gilead, rising. His veins were pulsing with excitement, but he allowed no sign of it to appear on his face. There was a safe in the room set upon a stand in one corner; but it was not to that, sleek in green and brass, that the moneylender had referred. He went to a panel in the wall which he unbuttoned, and revealed a second safe--plain black iron and of a much older and smaller pattern--which was sunk into the brickwork. Gilead, looking over his shoulder as he unlocked this, was aware of a little throng of bijoutry within, of the bust in question, and, quite unmistakably, of a cast of a hand in wax. His fingers itched to pluck out the witness and cast it into the fire. Mr Colfox, unsuspecting as an infant, withdrew the bust and held it to the light for the visitor’s inspection. “Not much wrong with that, sir, I think,” said he. Gilead gave a diplomatic interval to its examination. “And your price?” he enquired, looking up. “It is an exquisite thing,” said the moneylender--“Lerroux quite at his best. It wouldn’t be worth my while to part with it under a hundred.” Gilead handed back the treasure.