“It seems to have wonderfully taken your fancy, Mr Harris,” he remarked with an ironic cough. “Again you are unfortunate in the day you call, for this is Wednesday. And in any case I thought I made it clear that the cup was bound to stay here in spite of your most tempting offers.” “I know,” replied the dealer; “but I should like to see it—that is all.” “Ah! you mad collectors!” said Sir Gilbert humorously. “Ye can be as crazy over a bashed old siller cup as I might have been mysel’ at one time over a bonny lassie! Well, come your ways in and you shall see it. It is aye another shillin’!” Harris not only saw the cup, but this time got it into his hands. In a fever of apprehension he turned it up and down and sought for a microscopic mark like that which Hirsch had pointed out upon the other,—it was not there! At the sight of the blank look on his face Sir Gilbert chuckled and took snuff. “I see you have discovered, Mr Harris,” he remarked with his eyebrows twitching. “You connoisseurs are not to be deceived so easily!” “Then—then you know it is a forgery!” cried Harris with amazement. “I would not use that word for it exactly, Mr Harris,” said the baronet with a gesture of distaste. “A copy—and a wonderful copy too, by Tregastel of Paris. The truth is, I sold the original some months ago in London, having first had this one made. You see my possession of a Tudor Cup is notorious, and if it got about that the Quair Collection was being in any way depleted, where would our shillin’s come from, Mr Harris?” and he jocosely poked his visitor in the ribs. Harris flew back to the inn at Peebles, an object of unutterable despair. “Mein Gott! these Scotch!” cried Hirsch, wringing his hands. “But I will have my money back from that Meldrum man if I have to take him to the courts.” “Harris and Hirsch would cut a funny figure in the courts in the circumstances, Joel,” said his partner. “It is better that we go out together to-morrow, when your Meldrum’s place is open, and compromise.” The entrance to the Quair Collection had been hardly opened on the morrow when the dealers tried to push their way within. Harris was perturbed when he saw who checked them on the threshold—Sir Gilbert Quair himself, who greeted him with a crafty smile, only a little shabbier in dress than when he had seen him hitherto, and with the box for the admission shillings hanging round his neck. “It might be the flowin’ bowl, Mr Harris,” he exclaimed ironically. “Ye come back so often to it.” “I want a word or two with you,” said Mr Hirsch peremptorily, finding the old man barred their further passage. “Did you know that cup you lent me was an imitation?” “I could hardly fail to be aware of it,” said the baronet. “You surely didna think a paltry thousand pounds would be security for a genuine Tudor Cup, and a’ the world sae keen on them at Sotheby’s.”