“There are a Corot, a Mauve, and a Daubigny, I believe. The Corot is said to be a particularly good one.” “Um--what does she want for them?” “I don’t think poor Mary has any idea about the price; she asked me, but there’s one thing I won’t do, and that’s to be mixed up in an art deal--” Ringsmith’s eyes flashed; he flicked the ash off his cigar angrily. “Mixed up--art deal! Then why the devil do you come to me?” Peter Knott smiled at him benignly. “Oh! Because you and I are old friends, Stephen. I’m sure you’ll treat her better than any one else.” Ringsmith moved uneasily. “Why don’t you tell her to go to some one else first? I like people to fix their price before they come to me, then I can take it or leave it. They’ve got such fantastic ideas about the value of things.” “Oh, very well, if you prefer. I thought you’d be pleased I came to you, but of course--” Peter made a slight waving motion with his hand, dismissing the subject, and began talking of other things. A quarter of an hour later he rose to go. He said good-bye, and was just leaving the room when Ringsmith called him back. “About those pictures--I should like to oblige you, Peter.” “Yes?” “Where can they be seen?” Peter Knott took a half-sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ringsmith without comment. Ringsmith glanced at it and threw it on the table. “All right,” he said, “leave it to me; I’ll see what can be done, but these aren’t times to buy, you know.” “So you said,” Peter replied, and went gently out of the room. The next morning Ringsmith was early at his office. After looking over his letters he sent for MacTavish. The shrewd Scotsman was said to be the cleverest picture-buyer in the country. He came in, a tall, thin man, clean-shaven, with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Ringsmith doesn’t stand on terms of ceremony with his employees: he comes to the point at once. “D’you remember that Corot we sold to Peter Whelan of Philadelphia? When was it--two or three years ago?” “Certainly I do, Mr. Ringsmith.” “Can you say off-hand what we made on that deal?” “No,” replied MacTavish cautiously, “but I do remember what we gave for it, and what we sold it for. There were a lot of expenses on that deal.” There was a cunning look in MacTavish’s eyes as he added the last words. “Um, yes--what were the figures?” “We gave £4,000, but it included those ormulu vases which Joyce sold for us at Christie’s. You remember we were wrong about those, and it took some of the gilt off.” Ringsmith’s heavy eyebrows met in a scowl. “Well?” he said irritably. “Whelan gave £7,500. He’s a hard nut, you know.” “That’ll do now, MacTavish. I want you to go and call at this place, have a look at the pictures, and report.” * * * * *