“A queer story,” he ejaculated, breathlessly. “Go on. And you bought this engraving from the man himself, before he died? Did he tell you where he got it? It is the portrait of a woman, you say.” “Portrait of a woman--yes, yes. But he did not know who she was. And I do not know whether I gave him enough for it. Do you think I did, Jack?” “I do not know how much you gave him, but I have no doubt that it was too much. Where did he get it?” “He thinks it was brought from France by his mother, or the woman who was supposed in Farlingford to be his mother--together with other papers, which he burnt, I believe.” “And then he died?” “Yes--yes. He died--but he left a son.” “The devil he did! Why did you not mention that before? Where is the son? Tell me all about him, while I see how they've served this langue fourree, which should be eaten slowly; though it is too late to remind you of that now. Go on. Tell me all about the son.” And before the story of Loo Barebone was half told, John Turner laid aside his knife and fork and turned his attention to the dissection of this ill-told tale. As the story neared its end, he glanced round the room, to make sure that none was listening to their conversation. “Dormer Colville,” he repeated. “Does he come into it?” “He came to Farlingford with the Marquis de Gemosac, out of pure good-nature--because the Marquis could speak but little English. He is a charming man. So unselfish and disinterested.” “Who? The Marquis?” “No; Dormer Colville.” “Oh yes!” said John Turner, returning to the cold tongue. “Yes; a charming fellow.” And he glanced again at his friend, with a queer smile. When luncheon was finished, Turner led the way to a small smoking-room, where they would be alone, and sent a messenger to fetch Septimus Marvin's bag from downstairs. “We will have a look at your precious engraving,” he said, “while we smoke a cigar. It is, I suppose, a relic of the Great Monarchy, and I may tell you that there is rather a small demand just now for relics of that period. It would be wiser not to take it into the open market. I think my client would give you as good a price as any; and I suppose you want to get as much as you can for it now that you have made up your mind to the sacrifice?” Marvin suppressed a sigh, and rubbed his hands together with that forced jocularity which had made his companion turn grave once before. “Oh, I mean to drive a hard bargain, I can tell you!” was the reply, with an assumption of worldly wisdom on a countenance little calculated to wear that expression naturally. “What did your friend in the print-shop on the Quai Voltaire mention as a probable price?” asked Turner, carelessly. “Well, he said he might be able to sell it for me at four thousand francs. I would not hear of his running any risk in the matter, however. Such a good fellow, he is. So honest.”