In actual words he said: “The picture is already boxed and in its lead coffin. No doubt by now it is on its way to Liverpool. I am sorry.” But his thoughts, as Philip easily read them, were: “Fancy my letting this vulgar fool into the Tate Street workshop! Even HE would know that old masters are not found in a half-finished state on Chelsea-made frames and canvases. Fancy my letting him see those two half-completed Van Dycks, the new Hals, the half-dozen Corots. He would even see his own copy of Velasquez next to the one exactly like it--the one MacMillan finished yesterday and that I am sending to Oporto, where next year, in a convent, we shall 'discover' it.” Philip's surprise gave way to intense amusement. In his delight at the situation upon which he had stumbled, he laughed aloud. The two men, who had risen, surprised at the spectacle of a young man laughing at nothing, turned and stared. Philip also rose. “Pardon me,” he said to Faust, “but you spoke so loud I couldn't help overhearing. I think we've met before, when I was a reporter on the Republic.” The Pittsburgh millionaire made a pretense, of annoyance. “Really!” he protested irritably, “you reporters butt in everywhere. No public man is safe. Is there no place we can go where you fellows won't annoy us?” “You can go to the devil for all I care,” said Philip, “or even to Pittsburgh!” He saw the waiter bearing down upon him with the imitation cocktail, and moved to meet it. The millionaire, fearing the reporter would escape him, hastily changed his tone. He spoke with effective resignation. “However, since you've learned so much,” he said, “I'll tell you the whole of it. I don't want the fact garbled, for it is of international importance. Do you know what a Velasquez is?” “Do you?” asked Philip. The millionaire smiled tolerantly. “I think I do,” he said. “And to prove it, I shall tell you something that will be news to you. I have just bought a Velasquez that I am going to place in my art museum. It is worth three hundred thousand dollars.” Philip accepted the cocktail the waiter presented. It was quite as bad as he had expected. “Now, I shall tell you something,” he said, “that will be news to you. You are not buying a Velasquez. It is no more a Velasquez than this hair oil is a real cocktail. It is a bad copy, worth a few dollars.” “How dare you!” shouted Faust. “Are you mad?” The face of the German turned crimson with rage. “Who is this insolent one?” he sputtered. “I will make you a sporting proposition,” said Philip. “You can take it, or leave it. You two will get into a taxi. You will drive to this man's studio in Tate Street. You will find your Velasquez is there and not on its way to Liverpool. And you will find one exactly like it, and a dozen other 'old masters' half-finished. I'll bet you a hundred pounds I'm right! And I'll bet this man a hundred pounds that he DOESN'T DARE TAKE YOU TO HIS STUDIO!”