“Twenty-six thousand guineas are bid,” said Mr. Webb, who by now was leaning well over his desk and whose glances kept travelling sharply between the rivals. He was sure that the Brazilian intended, if necessary, to go to thirty thousand. “Twenty-seven,” said the American, recklessly. “Twenty-eight,” said the solicitor after a word with his employer. The American shook his head; he was very jovial and friendly, and bore no malice. He laughed, but he shook his head. “If that is your last word, gentlemen, I regret to say that the lot must be withdrawn, as the reserve has not been reached,” said Mr. Webb. “I am sure that Mr. Nutley will pardon me the slight irregularity in giving you this information, under the exceptional circumstances....” Nutley assented; he greatly enjoyed being referred to, especially now in Chase’s presence.... “I only do so in order to give you the chance of continuing should you wish....” “All right, anything to make a running,” said the American, who was certainly the favourite of the excited and eager audience; “two hundred and fifty better than the last bid.” The auctioneer caught the Brazilian’s nod. “I am bid twenty-eight thousand five hundred guineas ... twenty-nine thousand,” he added, as the American nodded to him. “Thirty,” said the Brazilian quietly. He had not spoken before, and every gaze was turned upon him as, perfectly cool, he stood leaning against the wall in the bay of a window. He was undisturbed, from the sleekness of his head down to his immaculate shoes. He had all the assurance of one who is certain of having spoken the last word. “I’m out of this,” said the American. “Thirty thousand guineas _are_ bid,” said the auctioneer; “for Lot 16 thirty thousand guineas. THIRTY THOUSAND GUINEAS,” he enunciated; “going, for the sum of thirty thousand guineas, going, going,...” Chase tottered to his feet. “Thirty-one thousand,” he cried in a strangled voice, “thirty-one thousand!” XVII Of all the astonished people in that room, perhaps not the least astonished was the auctioneer. He had never seen Chase before, and naturally thought that he had to deal with an entirely new candidate. He adjusted his glasses to stare at the solitary figure upright among the rows of seated people, standing with a trembling hand still outstretched. He had just time to notice with concern that Chase was deathly pale, his face carved and hollowed, before habit reasserted itself, and he checked the “gone!” that had almost left his lips, to resume his chronicle of the bidding with “Thirty-one thousand guineas ... any advance on thirty-one thousand guineas?” and cocked his eye at the Brazilian.