"Ah, I apologise, I most sincerely apologise. I was misled by the unusual tone of the brown. But--no, it is undoubted. None other than Van Dyck painted that ruff." The Count glared and quivered, his fine nostrils distended, a while longer, but swallowed his rage and bowed in acknowledgment of the apology. Dr. Lepardo was off again upon his voyage of discovery, drifting from picture to vase, from statuette to buhl cabinet. "M'sieur," he rumbled, peering around at de Guise, who now stood by the fireplace of the room to which the visitor's driftings had led him, his hands locked behind him. "I think I can propose you for the entire collection. Is it agreeable?" The Count bowed. "Ah!" M. Levi seated himself at the writing-table--for the room was a beautifully appointed study--and produced a cheque-book. "Twenty thousand pounds, English?" The Count laughed contemptuously. "Twenty-two?" "Do not jest, m'sieur. Nothing but thirty." "Twenty-eight is final. It is the price I had determined upon." De Guise considered, bit his lip, glanced at the open cheque-book--always a potent argument--and bowed in his grand fashion. Lepardo changed his spectacles for a larger pair, reached for a pen, peering, and overturned a massive inkstand. The ink poured in an oily black stream across the leathern top of the table. "Ah, clumsy!" he cried. "Blotting-paper, quick." The other took some from a drawer and sopped up the ink. Lepardo rumbled apologies, and, when the ink had been dried up, made out a cheque for L28,000, payable to "The Count de Guise, in settlement for the entire effects contained in his flat, No. 59b Bedford Court Mansions," signed it "I. Levi," and handed it to de Guise, who was surveying his inky hands, usually so spotless, with frowning disfavour. The Count took the cheque, and Lepardo stood up. "One moment, m'sieur." Lepardo sat down again. "You have dated this cheque 1928." "Ah," cried the other, "always so absent. I had in mind the price, m'sieur. Believe me, I shall lose on this deal, but no matter. Give it back to me; I will write out another." The second cheque made out, correctly, Lepardo shuffled to the door, refusing de Guise's offer of refreshments. He was about to pass out on to the landing when: "Heavens! I am truly an absent fool. I wear my writing glasses and have left my street glasses on your table. One moment. No, I would not trouble you." He shuffled quickly back to the study, to return almost immediately, glasses in hand. "Will seven-thirty in the morning be too early for my men to commence an inventory?" "Not at all." "Good night, m'sieur le Comte." "Good night, M. Levi." So concluded an act in this strange comedy. Let us glance for a moment at Thomas Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, who sat in his study, his head resting upon his clenched hand, his pipe cold.