“So did I, but I was mistaken,” he answered, with a writhe. “This was how it happened. I was playing at Newcastle last year, when a man named John Mackintosh, who said he had a real Cremona violin, or one that was said to be real, called upon me, and said he wanted my opinion of it. I had nothing to do during the day, so I went to his shop,—a little den down near the New Quay, in which he sold ginger beer, sweets, and newspapers,—and saw at a glance that it was a splendid instrument. It was of no use to him, for he is only a wretched scraper, who would be as happy with a twelve-and-sixpenny German fiddle, so I determined if possible to get him to sell it. He asked what I thought of it, and I said indifferently that it might be a real Cremona and it might not, but it was worth about £10.” “That would be a lie, of course?” I quietly observed. “Well, in a sense, yes,” he stammered, flushing a little. “You know I was speaking professionally.” “Oh, indeed? Professionals always lie, then?” “No, no—you mistake. I mean that professionals can never afford to give so much as ordinary buyers with lots of money. But the man was deeper than I had expected—he’s a Scotchman, you know, and they’re always cursed long-headed. He said, ‘Ah, but I wadna gie that fiddle for twice £10.’ I laughed at him, but at length I said I would buy it from him, and give him the £20. Blast him, then I found he wouldn’t sell it at all!” “And you came away without it?” “I tried him every way—pointed out how much more useful the money would be than the fiddle to him, but he only said dryly that ‘he would think aboot it,’ and thus I left him. The next time I was in Newcastle I called upon him again, and saw the violin, but this time Mackintosh was not in the shop, but an uncle of his, who said he could not sell the fiddle without the owner’s consent, but hinted that if I made a reasonable offer for it he had no doubt I might make a bargain the next time I came. Well, I did call on my next visit, and saw the uncle, who said that Mackintosh had decided to sell it if I would make the price £40, and I snapped at the offer at once. I asked when I could see Mackintosh, but the uncle only said, ‘You can get the fiddle frae me as weel as frae him—if ye hae the money wi’ ye?’ I had the money, and counted it out at once, while he wrote out a receipt, put a stamp on it, and signed it ‘John Mackintosh.’ Then I got the fiddle, and thought as I bore it off that I was happy for life.” “But you weren’t?”