'You will pardon me, sir. You are too much a man of the world not to forgive a little caution in a man who is selling all he has.' Then I stumbled and could not go on. 'Ah!' he said, 'quite right. Stupid of me, to be sure. Wait a minute.' He seized the cheque and his hat, and went heavily downstairs. When he was at the bottom of the first flight he shouted, 'Back directly,' and so went down the other three flights, and out-of-doors. My landlady opened the window, and looked out. 'He's gone into the bank, sir,' she said; then ran to the head of the stairs and screamed for somebody to open the door. 'He's coming out of the bank, sir,' said the landlady after an interval of renewed observation. He came upstairs, solidly, and into the room. 'Count that,' he said, and placed a small bag on the table. I counted the contents of the bag, but my fingers trembled, and I was confused. I made out one hundred and six pounds. 'No,' he said, 'make no mistakes at the bank? He counted the money rapidly. 'One hundred and five.' 'We agreed for one hundred, sir,' I said pushing five pounds across the table. 'Guineas,' he said brusquely. 'Always guineas in art. Don't know why, but always is. Oblige me, ma'am, by carrying these downstairs.' My landlady took the pictures in her arms. They were defended from each other by strips of thin cork at the corners, and they made a clumsy bundle. I had not looked at my client's card until now. Whilst he gave his directions to the landlady I took it up, and learned that his name was John Gregory; and that he lived in Westbourne Terrace. When my landlady had gone, he spoke to me, with another glance round the room. 'Been hard up?' he asked. 'I have been totally without money,' I answered him frankly, for I began to understand him. 'These things belong to you?' he asked again, waving his hand at the piano and the violin and the violoncello. 'Yes,' I answered. 'Why didn't you sell 'em? Better than starving.' 'I would sooner starve than part with any of them,' I told him. He turned sharply upon me. 'Why?' 'My mother played them.' There seemed no reason, for all his brusquerie, why I should not tell him this. 'Didn't play the fiddle, did she?' 'Divinely,' I told him. 'And the 'cello?' 'Yes.' 'Singular,' he said. 'Oh, ah, foreign lady. Yes, of course. Not at all remarkable. Good morning. Don't forget the Fridays. Glad to see you.' As he was going out he caught sight of the portfolio of sketches. He stopped and turned them over without remark or apology until he came to one which pleased him. It was a large sketch, sixteen inches by twelve, in water-colour, and had some little finish. He held it up and took it to the light.