Hazelton explained that critics and the public had forced these canvases into obscurity. “Another name signed to them—a Frenchman preferably—and we might hear a different story,” he added. A sudden idea came to De Vilmarte. “Listen!” he said. “I have exposed nothing for two years. Indeed, I have been doubtful as to whether I should expose again. I know well enough that were my family unknown and were not certain members of the jury my masters, and others friends of my family, I might never have been accepted at all—it has been a sensitive point with me. Unfortunately, my mother and my friends believe me to be a genius—” “Well?” said Hazelton, seeing some plan moving darkly through De Vilmarte’s talk. “Well,” said De Vilmarte, slowly, “we might play a joke upon the critics of France. There is a gap between this and my work—immeasurable—one I could never bridge—and yet it is plausible—” He glanced from a sketch of his he was carrying to Hazelton’s picture. Hazelton looked from one to the other. Compared, a gulf was there, fixed, unbridgable, and yet— He twisted his small, nervous hands together. Malice sparkled from his eyes. “It _is_ plausible!” he agreed. He held out his hand. A sparkle of his malice gleamed in De Vilmarte’s pale eyes. They said no more. They shook hands. Later it seemed to Hazelton the ultimate irony that they should have entered into their sinister alliance with levity. The second phase of the joke seemed as little menacing. You can imagine the three of them outside the Rotonde, Hazelton and De Vilmarte listening to Dumont’s praise of De Vilmarte’s picture. You can enter into the feelings of cynicism, of disillusion, that filled the hearts of the two _farceurs_. De Vilmarte’s picture had been accepted, hung well, then medaled. The critics had acclaimed him! They sat there delicately baiting Dumont, bound together by the knowledge that they had against the world—for they, and they alone, knew the stuff of which fame is made. They were in the position of the pessimist who has proof of his pessimism. No one really believes the world as bad as he pretends, and here De Vilmarte and Hazelton had proof of their most ignoble suspicions; here was the corroding knowledge that Raoul’s position and popularity could achieve the recognition denied to an unknown man. He was French, and on the inside, and Hazelton was a foreigner and on the outside. “Well,” said Raoul, when Dumont had left them, “we have a fine _gaffe_ to spring on them, _hein_? It’s going to cost me something. My mother is charmed—she will take it rather badly, I am afraid.” “Well, why should she take it?” asked Hazelton, after a pause. “Why should we share our joke with all the world?” “You mean?” asked Raoul. It was then that the voice of fate spoke through Hazelton. “You can have the picture,” he said, jerking his big head impatiently. “Do you mean that I can have it—to keep?”