Linnell and Peter ran their eyes down its contents. They were many and varied. Linnell read them quickly. “A William and Mary Marqueterie Walnut Cabinet, a Chippendale Wine-Cooler, a pair of Boulle Cabinets of Regency Design, Portraits by Hoppner, Paintings by De Ribera, Romney, Van Der Velde and Sir Peter Lely, Derby and Nantgarw Porcelain, Chinese Porcelain of the Sung and Ming periods, Jewelry, a Cromwellian chalice with the Hull hall-mark, a George II octofoil salver, a Georgian Epergne, an unusually large King’s Pattern service, several Sèvres vases—here we are, Peter, 37, 38 and 39 . . . h’m—h’m . . . exactly as described by our client in his letter.” He looked up from the catalogue. Peter pointed to a sentence at the end of the list. “May be viewed the two days preceding the Sale from 10 to 5 o’clock. That’s to-day and to-morrow. What do you say to me running along and having a glance at the particular stuff Stewart wants?” “Just what I was on the point of suggesting, Peter. You’ve taken the very words from my mouth.” “To-day or to-morrow?” “Please yourself—but it’s a nice morning—why not take advantage of it—have an early lunch and pop up West afterwards?” “A pleasing prospect,” exclaimed Peter. “Life seems a little brighter.” Linnell smiled—then waved him away. “That’s settled then.” He strolled back to his own room and looked at his watch. “Don’t see any just cause or impediment why I shouldn’t get along at once and see about that lunch,” he said to himself. “Plunkett!” He went to his door and called down the corridor. “Yes, Mr. Daventry.” Plunkett appeared in the distance and laboriously made his way to answer to the call. “I’m going out, Plunkett. Mr. Linnell will be here if anything should be wanted. That’s all. You needn’t trouble to come in.” Plunkett bowed his understanding and reëntered his daily cell. Once outside, Peter hailed a passing taxi. “Oxford Street,” he announced curtly. “The Violette.” It was where he habitually lunched whenever he happened to be in its vicinity. He made for his customary table and beamed upon the waiter who came forward solicitously. Now Peter prided himself upon the quality of his gastronomic inclinations. He scanned the menu with a fine and fitting discrimination. “A Dry Martini, Gustave.” “Yes, sir!” “Thick white soup, Sole au Colbert—and Roast Duck—that will do nicely to be getting on with.” He smiled in anticipatory relish. Gustave did likewise before disappearing. To appear again very quickly with the Dry Martini!