Tomlin examined them. As he did so, a keen observer might have noticed that Young Joe’s eyes were sparkling with what might have been excitement or resentment, but not gratification. "How much?" said Tomlin. "They’re not for sale." "What?" "I should say that I’m keepin’ ’em for a party I know." "Anything else to show me?" grunted Tomlin, caressing the Bow glaze with a dirty but loving finger. "Your father mentioned a mirror-black jar, K’ang He period." "Keepin’ that too," replied Quinney quietly. "Sold it?" "Not yet." Quinney smiled mysteriously. "Then what’s up? Ain’t my money as good as the next man’s?" "If you want a plain answer, Mr. Tomlin, it ain’t—to me." "Ho! What d’ye mean?" "Just that. It don’t pay to deal with the trade. If I pick up a good thing, you get the credit; you claim all the credit. Our name is never mentioned, not a line. In this town we have the reputation of selling rubbish. I’m going to change all that." "Are you?" Tomlin was visibly impressed and distressed. "Well, look ye here, take my advice, and walk in the old man’s footsteps. He done well." "I shall do better." Tomlin stared at the speaker, who spoke with an odd air of conviction. Quinney continued in the same quiet drawl, "If you want to buy any of this," he waved a contemptuous hand, "it’s yours—cheap!" "Rubbish!" "Just so." Tomlin sat down and wiped his forehead. He was feeling warm, and the sight of young Quinney so exasperatingly cool and smug in his black clothes made him warmer. "Ho! That’s the game, is it?" As Quinney nodded, he continued: "Me and you can do business together." "Together?" "I say—together. How would a trip abroad suit you?" Quinney lifted his eyebrows; the first indication of interest in his visitor. "A trip—abroad?" "To France. I’ve heard of a man in Brittany—a wonder. His line is old oak; mostly copies of famous pieces. He’s the greatest faker in the world, and an artist. No blunders! Would you like to go into a deal with me? You know old oak when you see it?" "I think so." "You go over there and buy five hundred pounds’ worth and put it into this shop, after you’ve cleared out the rubbish. I’ll go halves. It’s a dead cert, and this is the right place for the stuff. My pitch wouldn’t do, and I haven’t the room. I’ll send you customers." "It’s a go," said Quinney. "You mean to make things hum? And I can help you. Never gave you credit for being so sharp." Details were then discussed, not worth recording; but during this memorable interview, which led to so much, Quinney was sensible of an ever-increasing exaltation and powers of speech which amazed him as much as the older man. He announced curtly his intention of getting rid of the rubbish, repainting and redecorating the premises, and dealing for the future in the best, whether fakes or genuine antiques. "Never could persuade the old man that the ’Genuine Antiques’ card was a dead give-away."