“This viceroy”--thus Kane--“seems to be quite a personage. He's been a diplomat, I believe. And Kato tells me has an excellent collection of paintings.” Doane felt himself turning into a trader. “You are interested in Chinese paintings, are you not, Mr. Kane?” he asked guardedly. “Oh, yes. I have something of a collection. And now and then Kato picks up something for me.” “I don't know, of course, how far you would care to go with it Mr. Kane”--Doane was measuring every word as it passed his lips--“but there is a possibility that a bargain could be struck with his excellency at this time.” “Indeed?” “It would be advisable to act pretty quickly, I should say.” “Well! This is interesting. You are informed about his collection?” “In a general way. It is very well known out here. His collection of landscapes of the Tang and Sung periods is supposed to be the most complete in existence, with fine works of Ching Hao, Kuan Tung, Tung Yuan and Chu-jan. The best known paintings of Li Chang are his. He has several by Kao Ke-ming, and, I know, an original sixfold landscape screen by Kuo Hsi. Then there are works of the four masters of southern Sung--Li Tang, Lui Sungnian, Ma Yuen and Hsia Kuai. You would find nearly all the great men of the Academy represented.” Doane stopped; waited to see if this list of names impressed the great American. If he knew, in his own person, anything whatever about Chinese painting he must exhibit at least a little feeling. But Dawley Kane said nothing; merely lighted, with provoking deliberation, a fresh cigar. “It is commonly understood, too”--Doane could not resist pressing him a little further--“that he has authentic paintings by Wu Tao-tzu, and Li Lung-mien.” Surely these two names would stir this man who seemed at moments no more than a calculating machine with manners. But Kane smoked on.... “And I understand that he has a fairly complete collection of portraits by the men of the Brush-strokes-reducing Method.” He finished rather lamely; fell silent, and looked out over the still brilliantly lighted river; the river of a hundred thousand dramatic scenes--battles and romances and struggles for trade--the great river with its endless memories of gold and bloodshed--the river that for a brief day was running red again. The fire out there, though red flame and rolling smoke and whirling sparks still roared upward, was consuming now the lower deck and the hull. Within the hour the _Yen Hsin_ would be no more than a curving double row of charred ribs; one more casual memory of the river. Still Dawley Kane smoked on. He clearly knew no enthusiasm. He was an analyst, an appraiser, a trader to the core. He felt no discomfort, even in friendly talk, in letting the other man wait. But Doane would say no more. And finally, knocking the ash off his cigar with a reflective finger, Kane remarked; “You really think that this collection would be a good buy?” “Unquestionably.” “Have you any idea what he would ask?”