Very slowly and very reluctantly Burton made his way through the gloomy warehouse and into the salesrooms, which were approached from the street by a separate entrance. He knew exactly what was before him and he realized that it must be the end. Mr. Waddington, who had not yet mounted the rostrum, saw him come in, stared at him for several moments in his gray clothes and Homburg hat, and turned away to spit upon the floor. A woman with a catalogue in her hand--evidently an intending purchaser--gripped Burton by the arm. "I say, mister, you're the auctioneer's clerk, aren't you?" "I am," he admitted. "About that h'oil painting, now--the one of Gladstone. My old man's fair dotty on Gladstone and it's his birthday to-morrow. If it's all right, I thought I might make him a present. It says in the catalogue 'Artist unknown.' I suppose, as it's a real oil painting, it's worth a bit, isn't it?" "It is not an oil painting at all," Burton said quietly. "Wot yer mean?" the woman demanded. "Here you are--lot number 17--'Interesting oil painting of the Right Honorable W. E. Gladstone, artist unknown.'" Burton thrust the catalogue away from him with a sigh. "I am afraid," he admitted, "that the description can scarcely be said to be entirely accurate. As a matter of fact, it is a colored lithograph, very cleverly done but quite valueless. I dare say you would find that there are thousands of them exactly like it." The woman stared at him suspiciously. "Why, your guvnor's just told me that the reserve upon it's two guineas!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Waddington must have made a mistake," Burton replied, with a sinking heart. "Look here," the woman insisted, "what is it worth, anyway?" "A few pence for the frame," Burton answered, hurrying off. The woman drew her shawl about her shoulders, threw her catalogue upon the floor and made her way towards the door. "Not going to stay here to be swindled!" she declared loudly, looking around her. "Colored lithograph, indeed, and put down in the catalogue as an interesting oil painting! They must think us folks don't know nothing. Cheating's the word, I say--cheating!" The woman's eye met the eye of Mr. Waddington as she stood for a moment in the doorway before taking her departure. She raised her fist and shook it. "Bah!" she exclaimed. "Ought to be ashamed of yourself! You and your h'oil paintings!" Mr. Waddington was too far off to hear her words but the character of her farewell was unmistakable! He glanced suspiciously towards his chief clerk. Burton, however, had at that moment been button-holed by a fidgety old gentleman who desired to ask him a few questions. "I am a little puzzled, sir," the old gentleman said, confidentially, "about the absolute authenticity of this chippendale suite--lot number 101 in the catalogue. This sale is--er--um--advertised as being--" the old gentleman turned over the pages of the catalogue quickly--"a sale of the effects of the late Doctor Transome. That's so, eh?"