The avenue of yews, which led from the highway into Peebles through neglected and dishevelled grounds, brought the Bond Street dealer to the forlorn façade of the mansion and the great main door. He rapped upon the iron knocker; the sound reverberated as through a vault, with hollow echoes such as come from vacant chambers. Far back in the dwelling’s core there was a clatter of something fallen, but no one answered to the summons of the visitor; and having rapped in vain again, he ventured round the westward wing, to find himself confronted by a door on the side of which was hung the evidence that this was properly his entrance. It was a painted board, with the legend— QUAIR COLLECTION. Open to the Public Tuesdays and Thursdays. ADMISSION ONE SHILLING. Now this was neither a Tuesday nor a Thursday, and Harris swore softly. He was just on the point of making his retreat when a footstep sounded on the gravel of a little walk that led to a bower upon the terrace, and turning, he found himself face to face with Sir Gilbert Quair. “The collection is not on view to-day, sir,” said the baronet, an elderly thickset gentleman wearing a shabby suit of tweed. Mr Harris took off his hat—not to the wearer of the shabby tweed suit, but to the owner of the Tudor Cup. “I am most unfortunate,” he stammered. “I was not aware that the collection was only on view on certain days, and, unhappily, I must return to England this evening. It happens that I am something of an amateur in miniatures, fortunate in the possession of a few choice examples, and, being in this neighbourhood, I could not resist the temptation to see the celebrated collection of Sir Gilbert Quair, which is rich in miniatures.” He passed the baronet his card, to which the name of a well-known London club contributed the proper degree of uncommercial importance. Sir Gilbert turned it over in his fingers with a little hesitation, shot a shy glance of the keenest scrutiny from under his bushy eyebrows at the visitor. “In the circumstances—” he began, and taking a key from his pocket, unlocked the door which led to the collection, but before he let his visitor through he held out to him a little wooden box with a slit in the lid of it. “In the absence of the usual guide,” said he, “I’ll collect your shilling for him, Mr Harris.” Five minutes later Harris was manifesting the most rapturous appreciation of Sir Gilbert’s miniatures, which in truth were nothing wonderful; but at every opportunity, when unobserved by his host, his eyes went ranging in search of the Tudor Cup. It was his host who finally called attention to it under glass in a corner cupboard.