Mrs. Biddlecombe sighed; the anecdote had become almost personal, and therefore the more interesting. "That may happen to any of us," she murmured. "She had inherited this table from her grandma," continued Tomlin, "and my agent heard of it, and saw it. He offered the old lady four pun ten, and she wouldn’t deal. Obstinate as a mule she was!" "Sensible old dear, I call her," said Quinney. "My agent was fairly boiled, and then inspiration struck him. He never went near the old gal for a couple of months. Then he called with a friend, a stout, red-faced man, bit of an amateur actor. My agent introduced him as a collector of choice bits. Asked if he might show him the little table. Old lady was willing enough, and of course the low comedy feller crabbed it." "Stale dodge that," remarked Quinney. "Wait a bit. After crabbin’ it, he pretended to be interested in other things; and then he began to act queer. He’d slipped a bit o’ soap into his mouth, so as to froth proper." "Gracious me! Why!" asked Mrs. Biddlecombe. "Then he went into a regular fit, fell down, and as he fell grabbed the little table, and broke off one of its pretty spindle legs. When he come out of his fit, my agent said that the least thing a gentleman could do was to buy the table he’d spoiled. The old lady took a fiver as compensation, and jolly glad she was to get it. I sold that table to an American millionaire for one hundred and twenty-five—guineas!" Mrs. Biddlecombe rose majestically. She saw that her son-in-law was laughing. "Come, Susan, let us leave these _gentlemen_ to their wine." Susan followed her out of the room. When the door was shut behind them, Quinney said: "Old man, that yarn was a bit too thick for ’em. See?" Tomlin laughed boisterously. "One more glass of port," he replied, "and I’ll tell you another." He told several; and when the men returned to the small drawing-room, Susan said timidly that her mother had gone back to Laburnum Row. Later, when she was alone with her husband, she asked a sharp question: "Joe, dear, you wouldn’t have done what Mr. Tomlin did, would you?" "About what, Sue?" "About that table. Mother and I thought it was horrid of him to take advantage of a poor old lady." Joe evaded the question cleverly: "Look ye here, my girl, Tomlin is—well, Tomlin. Don’t you mix him up with me." "But, Joe, you are mixed up with him—in business." "Temporary arrangement, my pretty, nothing more." He kissed her, murmuring, "Blessed little saint you are!" *II* Melchester was profoundly interested in the new premises, and the other dealers in genuine antiques went about, so Quinney affirmed, chattering with rage, and predicting ruin. "They’ll be ruined," said Quinney, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "Nobody will buy their muck, and they know it."