Jim’s ideas of dusting were always a little perfunctory. With a small feather brush he flicked clouds of dust from one object to another. No; there was nothing here of any value, though that piece of torn embroidery might fetch five shillings, and the small oblong iron box which some one had painted inside and out a dark green might be worth a little more. He picked it up and examined it. A ridiculous notion to paint iron; but there! people were fools, particularly customers. Of course it might be copper or brass. In that case it would be worth more. He pulled out a long jack-knife and scraped the surface. The paint was old but incredibly thick. It must have had a dozen coats or so. When he eventually got down to the surface he found a dark-blue color. “Um!” thought Jim. “That’s a funny thing.” And he scraped a little more, and found some brown and white. “That’s enamel,” he said out loud. “An enamel box. Um! I’ll show that to Isaac. An enamel box might be worth several pounds.” He put the box on one side, and continued tidying up. That evening, after supper, he wrapped the box up in a piece of newspaper and took it round to his friend. Isaac adjusted his thickest glasses and examined the spot where Jim had scratched. Then he went to the door and called out: “Lizzie, bring me some turpentine.” When the turpentine was brought, Isaac began to work away at the surface with a rag and penknife. His face was very red, but he made no remark except once to mutter: “This paint alone is twenty or thirty years old.” It took him nearly half-an-hour to reveal a complete corner of the box. Then he sat back and examined it through a microscope. Jim waited patiently. At last Isaac put it down and tapped the table. “This,” he said deliberately, “is a Limoges enamel box of the finest period. An amazing find! Where did you obtain it?” “I bought it at a sale of the effects of an old lady named Brandt, at Greenwich. She died intestate, and had no relatives.” “You are in luck’s way, Jim Canning.” “But why was it painted dark-green?” “There are many mysteries in our profession. It was probably stolen many years ago—possibly a century ago. The thief knew that the piece was too well-known to attempt to dispose of for some time. So for security be painted it in order to hide it. Then something happened. He may have died or been sent to prison. The box passed into other bands. Nobody worried about it. It was just an old iron box. It has probably been lying in a lumber-room for years.” “It’s been lying in my shop for five months. Is it worth a great deal, Isaac?” Isaac thoughtfully stroked his chin. “I am of opinion that if it is undamaged, and if the rest of it is up to the standard of this part we have disclosed, it is worth many thousand pounds.” Jim looked aghast. “But I only gave six-and-sixpence for the lot!” “It is the fortune of our profession.”