He arose and came towards it. It was the hand of Antonides, and Antonides himself was waiting for him in the passage beyond the door. The passage was dark, and so were the stairs up which Antonides led him. “It’s done,” said the old man, pausing in the middle of the stairs and speaking backwards over his shoulder at Freyberger. “I have completed it.” “I’m glad to hear that, but don’t stop; this staircase of yours is not cheerful.” Antonides went up two more steps and stopped again. “I think you said fifteen guineas, Mr Freyberger?” “Pounds.” “Guineas.” “Pounds.” “Mr Freyberger!” “Go on—I don’t mean go on talking, go on up the stairs. I’m not going to give you a penny more than the fifteen pounds.” “Why, God bless my soul!” shouted the old fellow, falling into one of his simulated rages, “guineas were what I bargained for, guineas were in my head; they kept me alive all last night working for you, and now you say pounds.” Then, suddenly falling calm, “Never mind; wait till you see it and you won’t say ‘pounds.’” He led the way across a dingy and dimly lit landing into a room that was simply packed with all sorts of lumber. Canvases, six deep, with their faces turned to the wall, a torso just restored, a lay figure, masks and moulds, a huge mass of plasticine on a board, strange-looking instruments, and, on a bench near the window, something over which a cloth was thrown. “That’s it,” said Antonides, pointing to the object under the cloth. “I have covered it that the plaster of the joinings may not dry too quickly. You are on the Gyde case, Mr Freyberger?” “How did you know that?” “I’ll tell you soon, and I’ll tell you something more.” “Yes.” “You’ve lost fifteen shillings by making me that answer. You should have answered me, ‘What makes you think that?’ That would have been non-committal. You have as good as told me you are on the Gyde case; never give information away for nothing, Mr Freyberger, unless it is false.” “Or useless.” “True information is never useless—see, here, there’s my work.” He took the covering from the object on the table and disclosed to view the bust of a man. It was an extraordinarily fine piece of work, full of life and vigour. It represented a bearded man of about fifty. Even a person who had never seen the original would say, on looking at it: “That must be a good portrait.” It had individuality. That is to say, it had, what nearly all modern sculpture lacks, Life. In portraiture there is only one real medium—marble. Paint, photography, Berlin woolwork, all are pretty much on the same level when compared to marble, cut by the chisel of a master. Whoever has seen the statue of Demosthenes, by Praxiteles, has heard Demosthenes speak; has seen him as he once stood in the Agora. A man’s face is individuality, expressed by a million curves; in a portrait these curves are suggested; in a bust they are reproduced. This bust, reconstructed and unveiled by Antonides, was a triumph of art.