He was surprised to see Lavinia Keswick, having drunk her cup of tea and eaten her wafer, rise grimly from her chair and as grimly leave their presence. Conkling surmised that she was already resolutely removing the plum-colored moiré and making ready for a delayed return to her scuffle hoe. It was not until Georgina Keswick was alone with her guest that she returned to the matter uppermost in her mind. “You have doubtless heard of my brother, Kendal Keswick, in the art world?” She paused, as though waiting for the name to strike home. But to Conkling it meant nothing. For a moment the tragic pale eyes in the tragic old face took on a deeper pathos. “He was an artist himself in his time,” she stiffly acknowledged. “But he was also a collector.” “He would be before my time,” mercifully explained the young man, puzzled by the air of hesitancy which had overtaken the rusty old crow confronting him. “I presume so,” acknowledged the woman in black, contriving to make her survey of Conkling’s still youthful figure a slightly contemptuous one. “You spoke of him as a collector,” Conkling found the heart to remind her, out of the ensuing silence. “And that naturally prompts me to ask what became of his collection.” The pallid old eyes grew less abstracted. “Some of it he sold a year or two before his death.” “And the rest of it?” “The rest of it has remained ever since in the possession of the family. They are, in fact, held in trust here by me and my sister.” “Paintings, you mean?” “Yes, paintings,” she admitted. “Then they’re the property, I take it, of your niece, Julia?” suggested the young man, only too glad to direct the line of talk into more congenial channels. “Nominally, but not altogether,” was the somewhat acidulated reply. “Julia’s father, at his death, left many obligations behind him.” Conkling, vaguely chilled, waited for the woman in rusty black to speak again. “In a country such as this there are few persons with a knowledge of art—of great art,” she continued with an obvious effort. “And of late it has seemed advisable—advisable that these paintings, or at least a certain number of them, should be disposed of.” Conkling felt almost sorry for her. She was plainly not a woman who could easily ask a favor, yet behind that grim front, for all its momentary embarrassment, lurked an equally grim purpose. “And you’d like me to look them over and tell you what I consider they’re worth,” suggested her visitor—“what they’re worth from the New York dealer’s standpoint?” She blinked her eyes like an old eagle, plainly disturbed by his slightly impatient short-cut to directness. “It would be a great service,” she said out of the silence. “On the contrary, it would be a great pleasure,” contended Conkling. “So what’s the matter with getting at it while the light’s still good?” He was startled to see a ghost of a flush creep up into her faded cheeks.