Diamond Cut Diamond

ARKET HARLING is one of those towns, more than half medieval in aspect and atmosphere, which are still to be discovered in certain corners of England. It lies on the southeast slope of a shelving hill, on the heights of which rises an ancient castle, grim and formidable as when it was built seven hundred years ago. The Marquis of Harling, when he happens to be at home in that castle, and looks from any of its hundreds of windows, can truthfully say that he is monarch of all he surveys. The queer gables and timbered fronts of the houses beneath him and his stronghold are all his; his are the broad meadows below the town through which a winding river runs; his the quaint three-arched bridge that spans the river; his the more distant fields of wheat and barley and the hills that shut in the various views.

Not a sheep nor an ox, a sack of potatoes or a quarter of grain comes into the market place in the center of the little town but pays him toll in the shape of market-dues. His hand and his stamp are on everything and every man. The effigies in marble and alabaster of his ancestors crowd the thirteenth-century church; his escutcheon is emblazoned on the sign that swings before the picturesque old hostelry facing the church. It is a gaily-colored emblazonment, too, and catches your eye as soon as you cross the bridge, and it is only when you get close to it that you notice that there are words above and beneath the brightly hued quarterings—“The Marquis’s Arms, by Benjamin Gosling.”

Benjamin Gosling, host of the Marquis’s Arms, stood in the doorway of his old-established hostelry one summer evening about seven o’clock, looking out on the market place. He was an elderly man, good-looking, fond of smart clothes of a sporting cut, with a habit of wearing a white billycock hat on one side of his close cropped head and carrying a bit of straw on the opposite corner of his lips. He also had a trick of standing with his neatly gaitered legs somewhat wide apart and his hands under his coat-tails; this attitude seemed, somehow, to enable him to appraise at its proper value whatever was going on in front of his nose.

Just then nothing was going on. The market place was asleep. Two or three old men, ancient gaffers of the town, sat on the steps of the market-cross; two or three children played about the church steps; half-a-dozen chickens scratched where grass grew among the cobblestones; from the meadows across the river came the voices of boys playing cricket. It was a peaceful scene and Benjamin Gosling was taking it in before retreating to his bar-parlor to refresh himself with a glass and a cigar. But as he was about to turn away into the old stone-paved hall of the inn, the one fly which his establishment boasted came over the bridge. That fly went down to the railway station, a mile away, to meet all the London trains. Sometimes it brought back a passenger, a commercial gentleman or a tourist; more often it brought nobody. But on this occasion its driver had on a fare, and Benjamin, who was a keen man about profits, lingered on his doorsteps to see if the fare desired accommodation.

The fare was a young gentleman of apparently five-and-twenty years of age, well-dressed in a quiet way, and accompanied by a handsome suitcase and a brown paper parcel. That brown paper parcel immediately attracted Benjamin’s attention. For when the odd-job man of the Marquis’s Arms came running out of the stable-yard to carry in the luggage, the stranger laid hands on his parcel with a gesture which showed plainly that he was not going to entrust it to anybody’s handling but his own. It was a very tidy parcel, a square affair, about two feet wide by as many deep, and from the fact that it was only a few inches in breadth the landlord came to the conclusion that it contained a picture. Still, he moved forward with an outstretched hand.

“Allow me, sir,” he began. But the young gentleman planted the parcel firmly under his left arm, and at the same time shook his head firmly.

“Thank you, but I’ll carry it myself,” he said. “You the host?”

“At your service, sir,” replied Benjamin. “Want a room, sir?”

“I want a room, if you please, and dinner,” answered the new-comer. “Dinner especially!—at present.”

“Ready in a few minutes, sir,” said Benjamin. “This way, sir. Beautiful weather we continue to enjoy, sir.”

The young gentleman agreed, and following his host into the hotel, booked the best bedroom in the house and retired to it, still hugging his parcel. According to the chambermaid he locked it up in the deepest drawer of the old-fashioned press in his room, having previously made a bed for it with his overcoat; and he had the key of the drawer in his pocket when he descended to dinner. But he said nothing to her about what was in the parcel, nor did he mention it to Benjamin Gosling, when, having dined in solitary state in the coffee room, he turned into the bar-parlor to smoke an after-dinner pipe. A very quiet, well-mannered young gentleman, this, decided Benjamin; one who knew how to keep himself to himself; all the same, he wondered what the young gentleman’s business might be.

Next morning, he was to know. Behind the bar-parlor lay Benjamin’s private parlor, a holy of holies into which none but his very intimate cronies of the town ever gained admittance. Benjamin was at his desk in this, soon after breakfast, looking over his letters, when a tap at the door prefaced the partial entry of the stranger.

“Can I have a word with you, Mr. Landlord?” he inquired. “If you’re not busy.”

“Certainly, sir, certainly,” replied Benjamin. “Come in, sir, come in. Hope you slept well, and have found everything satisfactory, sir?”

“Everything is most comfortable, thank you,” said the guest. He perched himself on the edge of the table and lighted a cigaret. “I just wanted,” he went on, giving Benjamin a look that suggested a desire for confidence, “to ask you a question—between ourselves. Now it’s this—what’s the best time to call on the Marquis?”

Benjamin started. There was that in the young gentleman’s tone which seemed to savor of mystery.

“The Markis, sir?” he exclaimed. “Well, that depends on—but you know, sir, the Markis isn’t at home!”

It was now the turn of the stranger to start. An obvious cloud spread over his good looks.

“Not at home!” he said. “Confound it—I made sure he’d be at home! Where is he, then?”

“Salmon fishing in Norway, sir, is the Markis at present,” replied Benjamin. “Gen’rally is, this time o’ year, sir. Stops a goodish while there, as a rule—but I did hear the steward say a few days ago, that his Lordship might be coming home any time now—uncertain, like. Relation of his Lordship’s, sir?”

“No, I’m no relation,” answered the stranger. “No, I came to see him on business—I’d no idea he’d be away. You see—here, I’ll tell you why I came to see him. You know, of course, that he’s a great connoisseur of pictures?”

Benjamin smiled indulgently.

“We all know that, sir, hereabouts,” he replied. “His Lordship owns one of the most wonderful collection of pictures in this country—so I’m informed. And of course I’ve seen it, many a time. The old masters, sir—that’s what they call ’em. Not exactly gay and flowery sort o’ things, you know—dull and dark, I call ’em, most of ’em, but worth, oh, no end of money. So I’m given to understand—by them that know.”

“Just so,” agreed the stranger. “Well, Mr. Gosling, I’m an expert in pictures—that’s my profession. I’m well known in London, Paris, Vienna, Rome, New York—here’s my card.”

He drew forth a highly glazed and beautifully engraved card from a Morocco case and Benjamin put on his glasses and read the name aloud. “Mr. Albert Faroni,” he said. “Thought you was a foreign gentleman, sir—said so last night. Complexion, sir!”

“I’m not,” replied Mr. Faroni. “I’m a Londoner, born and bred. Grandfather was Italian, though. But I was telling you why I came here, Mr. Gosling. When I was in Paris a week or two ago I bought a Rembrandt—you’ve heard of him, of course?”

“The gentleman’s name sounds familiar, sir,” answered Benjamin. “I’ve no doubt heard it up at the castle. I believe his Lordship has pictures by that gentleman.”

“He has!” said Mr. Faroni. “He’s a very fine collection of Rembrandts. That’s just why I brought mine to show him, for he’ll be sure to buy it—and he hasn’t got anything finer. Do you know, Mr. Gosling, I discovered it in a second-hand furniture shop in a back street in Paris. Got it for—well, between you and me, a mere trifle. That is, a mere trifle in comparison to what it’s really worth.”

“Dear me, sir!” remarked Benjamin, always deeply interested in any bargain. “And what may it be worth now, sir?”

Mr. Faroni’s olive-tinted face grew enigmatic.

“Ah!” he said knowingly. “That’s a little question that will have to be settled between the Marquis and me—when we meet. It’s a peculiarly fine specimen of Rembrandt’s genius, Mr. Gosling. But you shall see it.”

Without staying to ascertain whether Benjamin wanted to see the picture or not, Mr. Faroni hastened out of the room and upstairs, and in a few moments returned carefully carrying his parcel. He unwrapped various sheets of brown paper and folds of thin canvas and finally removing two stout cardboards revealed an ancient, much worn gilt frame wherein was displayed an oil painting of a very dark woman posed amid almost equally dark surroundings. Benjamin nodded, as at an old acquaintance.

“Yes!” he said. “I’ve seen that sort of production before, sir, at the castle. His Lordship owns a many of ’em. Not beautiful, to be sure, but I’m told worth their weight in gold, some of ’em.”

“Oh, of course,” assented Mr. Faroni. “You may be quite certain that his Lordship will simply jump at this. But you can’t see it very well in this light, Mr. Gosling. Let’s see, now” he looked round, and suddenly moved towards a corner of the parlor where a sporting print hung on the wall. “Now if you’ll just let me take down this drawing, and hang my picture in its place,” he went on, suiting his action to his word. “There! Now you see it better. One of the finest Rembrandts I ever had to deal with, Mr. Gosling!”

Benjamin put his head on one side and strove to look admiring.

“Indeed, sir,” he said. “Pity his Lordship’s away from home, I’m sure. But as I observed just now, the steward did say”

“Just tell me where the steward lives,” interrupted Mr. Faroni, “and I'll step along and see him. He may have heard when the Marquis is expected, and in that case I might stop here till he comes. Is the steward close at hand?”

Benjamin gave the desired information and Mr. Faroni hurried away. In half an hour he was back again.

“He says his Lordship may be home within a week, and he may stay a bit longer in Norway,” he reported. “Personally, he believes he’s coming home soon. I’ll tell you what I think I’ll do, Mr. Gosling. As the Marquis certainly won’t return for a week, I'll go back to London, and come here again in ten days or so, so if you'll just have my bill made out, I’ll settle it and catch the 11:40. And oh, and the picture. As it’s hung up there in your private parlor, perhaps you'll let it hang till I return—it’s out of the way, and that’ll save me the trouble of carrying it back to London and bringing it down a second time. Oh, it’ll be quite safe, quite safe, Mr. Gosling—no need to bother your head about it—it’ll be safe as houses in that corner. Much obliged to you, you know.”

Benjamin replied that he, too, was much obliged, and that he hoped to see Mr. Faroni again in due course, and Mr. Faroni thereupon settled his bill, tipped the servants liberally, and hurried away to London, leaving the Rembrandt, a dark achievement, in the darkest corner of the landlord’s parlor.

The Rembrandt hung in its corner for several days without attracting any attention from Benjamin’s cronies. Then, on the Sunday evening following Mr. Faroni’s visit, Dr. Pepperdeane looked in at the Marquis’s Arms, and finding Benjamin alone in his parlor, sat down with him to discuss the local news and drink a glass of whisky. Presently he nodded towards the corner from which Mr. Faroni had taken down a crude representation of hounds in full cry.

“Got a new picture, I see, Ben,” observed Dr. Pepperdeane curtly.

Benjamin waved his cigar in a non-committal gesture.

“Well, it’s not mine at all, doctor,” he answered. “No business to be there, in a way of speaking. A young fellow came here with it the other day in hopes of selling it to the Markis, and as his Lordship isn’t at home, asked me to let it hang there until he came down again. He said it’s a Rembrandt. Picked it up in a back street in Paris. Art expert he called himself—high art.”

“Pay his bill?” asked the doctor.

“Oh, yes!—quite the gentleman—very superior young fellow,” replied Benjamin, “known all over the world, he said he was. Gave me his card—name of Faroni, Mr. Albert Faroni.”

“Oh, I know that name,” said Dr. Pepperdeane, “famous house of that name—art dealers, London and Paris. Um!—wants to sell it to his Lordship, eh?”

“So he said—it was what he came for,” responded Benjamin. “Gave me to understand it was an uncommonly fine specimen of this Rembrandt’s work. What do you make of it, doctor—you're a bit of a judge of these things, I believe?”

“Ought to be,” growled the doctor. “Brother was an Associate of the Royal Academy—Samuel Pepperdeane, A.R.A. landscape painter, though—and landscapes are more in my line—not portraits. Got some fine specimens of my brother’s brush, Gosling. Still, I know a good thing when I see one—landscape or portrait.”

He rose and made over to the Rembrandt, and for some minutes stood examining it with a critical eye and pursed up lips.

“Good thing, sir?” inquired Benjamin.

The doctor stepped back, viewed the Rembrandt from another angle, and nodded.

“In my opinion,” he said oracularly, “In my considered opinion, Gosling—undoubtedly genuine! A distinct find!”

“Then you think the Markis’ll buy it, sir?” inquired Benjamin. “You think he’ll be a bidder?”

“The Marquis will be an ass if he isn’t!” replied Dr. Pepperdeane. “And the Marquis isn’t an ass about pictures. Oh, yes, he’ll buy—it’ll be a valuable addition to his Rembrandts.”

“Will it indeed, sir?” exclaimed Benjamin. “Dear me!” He cocked an eye at the picture with growing affection. “Um!—just so. And what might a thing like that be worth, now, doctor, in plain figures? Much?”

The doctor took a pull at his glass, smacked his lips and let out one word. “Thousands!”

Benjamin gaped his astonishment.

“Pounds?” he exclaimed. “Pounds, doctor?”

“Guineas!” said the doctor. “Guineas. Know one Rembrandt that fetched seven thousand guineas; another that fetched six. Greatest painter of his age, Rembrandt, Gosling. And that,” he added, waving his hand towards Mr. Faroni’s property, “is, I should say, a very fine and characteristic specimen.”

From thenceforward Benjamin could scarcely keep his eyes off the Rembrandt. When he had no one with him in his private parlor he used to sit and look at it, and every time he looked at it he broke the commandment which forbids the coveting of one’s neighbor’s goods. He wished it was his, so that he could sell it for seven, or even for six thousand guineas. He wondered if Mr. Albert Faroni would sell it to him so that he, Benjamin, could sell it again, at a profit. He began to speculate on the chances of Mr. Faroni’s being or not being a young gentleman who would be tempted by ready money, cash down on the nail. Would there be any chance of doing a deal with Mr. Faroni when he came down again—a deal that would, of course, be advantageous and profitable to Benjamin Gosling?

Benjamin Gosling had known many deals in his day, generally in horseflesh, and he had usually, that is to say in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred—turned them to his own advantage. Could he manage a picture deal? There was no doubt as to the value, the immense value of the property concerned—didn’t Dr. Pepperdeane say it was a genuine and very fine Rembrandt? And Dr. Pepperdeane’s brother was Samuel P., sometime Associate of the Royal Academy—“and would have been an R.A., sir, a Royal Academician if he’d lived a year or two longer!” said the doctor. Oh, yes, there was the potentiality of profit in that corner—big profit, said Benjamin. And he looked forward to Mr. Faroni’s return, and felt glad to know that he always kept a large, comfortable balance at the old bank across the market place.

But Mr. Faroni did not return to the Marquis’s Arms at the end of a week or ten days. Instead he sent a letter. It was written in a delicate, artistic hand, on tinted notepaper, and it was somewhat unusually headed:

Benjamin had no objection to according further hospitality to the Rembrandt. It gave him a warm feeling in the region of his epigastrium when he looked at the wall above his bureau and reflected that what hung on it represented six or seven thousand guineas.

It was about a fortnight after the receipt of Mr. Faroni’s letter that a very smart car drove up to the door of the Marquis’s Arms one fine morning just before the luncheon hour. It contained a handsome gentleman and a pretty lady, both of aristocratic appearance and, if the style of their equipage and quality of their apparel were anything to go by, of means and position. They were evidently very great people. Benjamin, who as usual was at the front of the inn, was glad to think that this, being a show-day at the castle, was one of the days whereon folk of good degree often came to lunch in his coffee-room, and provision was made accordingly. Of the high quality of these two guests, he had no doubt when the gentleman selected a bottle of the best champagne on Benjamin’s wine-list. And he was all politeness and obsequiousness when, lunch being over, the gentleman presented himself at the door of his private parlor to ask for information about the best and nearest way to a town some twenty miles off. While Benjamin afforded this he saw his questioner start. Regarding him more closely, he realized that the stranger’s eves were fixed on the Rembrandt. The next instant, he waved his cigaret in its direction.

“Rather a fine picture you have there!” he remarked. “May 1 look more closely at it?”

Benjamin bowed him into the room

“With pleasure, sir,” he replied. “I believe it is rather a good picture.”

The gentleman walked in, took up a position from which he could inspect the picture to the best advantage, and for some minutes he examined it in silence. Eventually he turned to Benjamin with a questioning look.

“I suppose you're aware that this is a Rembrandt?” he remarked.

“So I’m given to understand, sir,” replied Benjamin. “Our doctor, Dr. Pepperdeane, an authority on these matters—his brother was a great artist, sir—he tells me it is a Rembrandt, and an exceptionally good one. A very great painter that gentleman was, sir, I believe.”

The stranger made no reply to this suggestion. He continued to inspect the picture; finally, he asked Benjamin if he might bring his wife to look at it. The lady appeared and he and she whispered together in the corner. The gentleman turned to Benjamin. “Do you mind my taking the picture down and looking at the back of the canvas?” he asked. “I shall do it no harm.”

“Oh, certainly, if you wish it, sir,” asserted Benjamin. He was hoping to pick up a wrinkle or two himself, and he watched narrowly while the stranger took down the picture, turned it over, indicated various matters with a slim, well-polished finger nail to his companion, and again whispered to her. “Not done yesterday, that, sir!’ said Benjamin, jocularly. “Old stuff, that, at the back!”

Again, the stranger made no reply to Benjamin’s remark. He returned the picture to its place, rubbed a speck or two of dust from his hands, and suddenly turned to the landlord with a sharply delivered sentence, each word of which followed on its predecessor like bullets out of a machine gun.

“I’ll give you two thousand pounds for it!”

Benjamin smiled. If it had not been for his Sunday evening conversation with Dr. Pepperdeane, he would have gasped. But he had had that conversation. So he smiled.

“I’m afraid I can’t take it, sir,” he answered. “Two thousand? No, sir.”

“Two thousand five hundred, then!” said the stranger.

“I’m afraid that won’t tempt me, either, sir,” replied Benjamin deprecatingly.

The would-be purchaser glanced at Benjamin, summed him up, pursed his lips together, whistled a little, went over to the picture, studied it a little longer, and once more turned on its supposed owner with a jerk of his jaws.

“Three thousand! Cash down! Come now!”

“No, sir,” said Benjamin, firmly. “Sorry to disappoint any gentleman who takes a fancy to a picture, but it can’t be done in this case. The fact is, sir, that picture is reserved for the approbation of the Markis.”

He waved his hand, as he spoke, towards that corner of the room behind which, on the other side of the inn, rose the firm ramparts, and stout walls of the castle. The stranger’s face fell.

“Oh,” he said. “Ah—you mean the Marquis of Harling? To be sure, he’s a great collector. But I fancy I’ve heard he’s already got a very fine collection of Rembrandts.”

“Just so, sir,” agreed Benjamin. “But, as you’re aware, sir, none of us can ever have too much of a really good thing. I understand his Lordship has six and thirty examples—that’s the term, I believe—of this Mr. Rembrandt’s performances, and I am sure he’ll have no objection to making the number up to thirty-seven. Anyhow, no business can be done about that picture until his Lordship’s seen it. And his Lordship is at present from home—he’s salmon-fishing in Norway.”

“When will he be home?” inquired the stranger.

“I couldn’t say, sir, exactly,” replied Benjamin. “Probably about the end of July, sir.”

The gentleman gave a covetous look at the Rembrandt, and it seemed to Benjamin that he sighed a little—the sigh of disappointment.

“Well,” he said, “of course, in that case, there’s nothing more to be said. But if the Marquis doesn’t care to buy, I will. You can take it from me, Mr. Landlord, that my offer stands good: I said three thousand and I'll give three thousand! Cash!”

Benjamin coughed. It was a discreet noncommittal cough.

“I’m not sure that I could do business on those terms, sir,” he said. “Three thousand seems a very nice price, but Dr. Pepperdeane, he mentioned having known them pictures fetch as much as six and seven thousand. Guineas, sir!”

“Oh, ah, well, Mr. Landlord, that entirely depends upon the character, condition, and so on, of the picture,” said the stranger. “However, that’s a matter of detail. If his Lordship won’t buy, I will—I, too, have a considerable number of Rembrandts in my collection, but—however, as I say, you may count on me.” He drew out a handsome case and produced a card. “Take care of that, Mr. Landlord, and if the Marquis fails you, write to me at once. Or better still, wire!”

Then the lady and gentleman went away in their luxurious car, and Benjamin, having bowed them off from his front door, rubbed his hands gleefully. Now if only he could do a deal with that young Mr. Faroni! The worst of it was, he didn’t know Mr. Faroni’s address. Still, Dr. Pepperdeane had said there was a famous house, a firm, of that name, and the address could be got. Thinking of addresses made him think, too, of the card which the stranger had given him; he had not yet glanced at it. He glanced at it now and smiled with satisfaction.

Benjamin possessed, among other books of reference, a Peerage and Baronetage, and he went to his desk and consulted it. The name of Sir Henry Wildacre was not there. But Benjamin’s issue was quite a dozen years old; moreover, he knew that since the end of the Great War, baronets have been created by the dozen, and knights made by the hundred—his late guest was doubtless of the new creations. It was all right—and now if he could only get hold of young Mr. Faroni and cajole him into believing that one bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. …

For the next few days Benjamin blessed the hour which brought the Rembrandt to the calm shelter of the Marquis’s Arms. It seemed to him that however things went, money must come to him in consequence of its presence. Supposing the Marquis bought it, Mr. Faroni must needs give him something handsome for harboring and taking care of such a truly valuable object of art. But Benjamin hoped that the Marquis, who had the local reputation of being hard at a bargain, would not buy it: it would pay him better if the Marquis refused it, and Sir Henry Wildacre came into the running. And it would pay him best of all, far better than getting a commission on the proceeds, if he could get the picture into his own hands. He determined that when Mr. Faroni came down he would not mention Sir Henry and would throw cold water on Faroni’s attempt to see the Marquis; what he would do was to feel his way to tempting the young man with ready cash, on the ground that he himself had conceived a violent fancy for the Rembrandt. Ready money, in Benjamin’s opinion, was a powerful provocation to a hasty conclusion in the matter of bargains, and according to his reading of human nature, Mr. Faroni, offered a substantial bearer check on the bank across the market place, would in all probability fall a victim to temptation.

But Mr. Faroni did not come. Instead, about a week after the visit of Sir Henry Wildacre and his lady, Benjamin, busied in inspecting a young horse in the stable yard of his establishment, was summoned by his bookkeeper who informed him that a young person wished to see him and was awaiting his presence in the office.

“She won’t give her name, Mr. Gosling,” said the bookkeeper. “She says you'll know who she is when she tells you. A young widow, I think, Mr. Gosling—she’s in widow’s weeds, anyway—black crêpe and all that.”

Benjamin scowled. He was of the elder Mr. Weller’s persuasion as regards widows; his experience of them was that they were always after something.

“Did you say young?” he asked grumblingly. “Quite young, Mr. Gosling—and pretty,” replied the bookkeeper.

“Tell her I'll come in a minute—it’s another subscription of course,” said Benjamin. “Give her a glass of port and a biscuit.”

He went on with his examination of the young horse; the result was not satisfactory and Benjamin was not in a very good temper when he finally put his hands under his coat-tails and strolled back to the house. He looked suspiciously inside the office; there, a half-finished glass of his best port in front of her, sat a remarkably pretty, fair-haired, violet-eyed young woman attired, with much simplicity and not a little coquetry, in mourning garb. She lifted demure eyes at Benjamin's entrance and rose to her feet.

“Morning, ma’am!” said Benjamin, half surly and half attracted. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“Mr. Gosling?” inquired the visitor in a voice as pretty as her face.

“That’s me, ma’am,” responded Benjamin. “Here before you.”

The visitor lifted her veil, which till then had rested on the bridge of her slightly retroussé nose. She turned on the full power of her violet eyes and her carmine lips grew pathetic.

“I am Mrs Faroni!” she murmured.

Benjamin started. His mouth opened. He was conscious that something was going to happen; what, precisely, he couldn’t even guess at.

“Not—not—you don’t mean to say that it was—not your husband” he began. “Albert is dead, Mr. Gosling!’ interrupted Mrs. Faroni. She sought and found a cambric handkerchief, minute in proportion, and gracefully applied it to an eyelash or two. “He died three weeks ago. Suddenly, Mr. Gosling. Heart failure.”

God bless my life and soul, ma’am,” said Benjamin. “You don’t say so! Poor young fellow. I took quite a liking to him. Have another glass of port, ma’am. Bless me—quite a shock.”

To repair the ravages of the shock, Benjamin, having filled up his visitor’s glass, filled another for himself, and, drinking, murmured more expressions of sympathy. “A very nice young fellow indeed, ma’am!” he continued. “He may have mentioned to you that he came here, on business, some little time ago?”

Mrs. Faroni shook her pretty head, and Benjamin, who had an eye and a half for young women of the comely order, was struck by the way in which widow’s weeds suited her style of beauty.

“Well, no,” she answered. “I can’t say, Mr. Gosling, that Albert ever mentioned that. He did a great deal of traveling about and naturally he didn’t tell me every detail. All the same, I am aware he visited you, and that’s what has brought me here today. You see, Mr. Gosling, Albert has left pretty nearly everything he had to me, and I am sole executor of his will as well as sole residuary legatee. Of course, I have had to examine all his books and papers. Among them I found a list of pictures and objects of art left by Albert at various places, on approval and so on. One of the entries refers to a Rembrandt, left by Albert with Mr. B. Gosling, the Marquis’s-Arms, Market Harling. So I thought I would just come down and fetch it.”

Benjamin picked up Mrs. Faroni’s glass and his own.

“Just step into my private room, ma’am,” he said. “That picture, ma’am, is just where your poor husband placed it with his own hands. You’re thinking of taking it back with you, ma’am,” he continued as he closed the door of his sanctum. “Taking it to London?”

“Oh, to be sure, Mr. Gosling!” replied Mrs. Faroni. “I know it’s of great value.”

“Just so, ma’am, just so,” agreed Benjamin. “So Mr. Faroni, as was, poor fellow, gave me partly to understand—partly. He didn’t name any figure to me, ma’am. Did he leave any memorandum as to why the picture was left here?”

“He did not, Mr. Gosling,” answered the youthful widow. “I suppose it was left on approval, and that as you hadn’t written about it, you didn’t want to buy.”

“Ah, well, ma’am, it was like this here,” said Benjamin, waxing unblushingly mendacious. “Me and Mr. Faroni agreed I should have an option on it. He was to come here again—in July or August, ma’am. Then, if I liked to buy, we were to agree on a figure. Now, did he leave any notes about that, ma’am—any memorandum about a price?’

“Well, yes, there was a figure attached to his note about the whereabouts of the picture,” said Mrs. Faroni. “Just a figure and no more. Nine hundred pounds. Are you thinking of buying, Mr. Gosling?”

“That’s rather more than I had calculated on your poor husband asking, ma’am,” replied Benjamin, who was already secretly overjoyed. “Nine hundred pounds is a stiff amount, ma’am. Certainly, I think well of the picture—a very nice specimen of Mr. Rembrandt's talents. Yes—but I’m afraid I couldn’t go to nine hundred pounds.”

Mrs. Faroni sipped her port and looked thoughtfully at the picture.

“What amount would you go to, Gosling?” she asked suddenly.

Benjamin assumed the airs of the judicious buyer.

“Well, ma’am,” he said slowly, “considering the state of the market, the present state of the market, and having an eye, as you may say, to the future, I don’t think I could say more than seven hundred, ma’am—say seven hundred.”

Mrs. Faroni shook her becoming head attire.

“That’s two hundred less than Albert evidently estimated its value at, Mr. Gosling,” she remarked. “A serious difference.”

“I’m offering a cash price, ma’am,” said Benjamin. “Cash down, on the spot, is my motto!”

“Still, a difference of two hundred” murmured Mrs. Faroni. “That’s”

“Well, well, we won’t split on that, ma’am,” interrupted Benjamin, generously. “Say eight, ma’am, and be done with it. Eight hundred!”

“Guineas, Mr. Gosling,” said Mrs. Faroni.

“Pounds, I think, ma’am, for spot cash,” replied Benjamin.

“Guineas is the proper thing, in the trade, Mr. Gosling,” remarked Mrs. Faroni, with the assured air of knowledge. “Guineas!”

“Well, well, ma’am, I’m not averse to a few shillings—under the circumstances,” said Benjamin. He unlocked his bureau and produced his check-book. “As I said spot cash, ma’am, perhaps you’d like a bearer check?—my bank, ma’am, is right opposite—stood there a many years!” concluded Benjamin, with a chuckle. “Let’s see, now—eight hundred guineas is”

Mrs. Faroni volunteered the information that eight hundred guineas is eight hundred and forty pounds, and Benjamin coinciding, wrote out a check for that amount and presented it to her. Then in the fulness of his heart, he suggested that when Mrs. Faroni had been across to the bank and got her money, she should lunch with him before returning to London. But Mrs. Faroni said, with a tear on her eyelash; that she had a little boy at home from whom she had never been parted until now, and she was anxious to get back to him. So she and Benjamin said farewell, and Mrs. Faroni having collected a wad of bank-notes across the market place, climbed into Benjamin’s archaic one-horse fly, and vanished in the direction of the railway station.

The Marquis of Harling came home.

Although he was a Marquis, and the head of a great house whose folk had lorded it over all that corner of England since the days when an ancestor had been William the Conqueror’s cup-bearer, he was a very bluff and easily approachable person, and when Benjamin Gosling waylaid him at the door of the Marquis’s Arms, and begged the favor of a few minutes’ private interview, he responded cheerfully.

“Got a picture you want me to look at, eh, Gosling,” exclaimed his Lordship as he bustled in. “What sort of a picture? Sporting print?”

“Oh, no, my Lord,” replied Benjamin, leading the way. “Something of a very different class, my Lord. Er—it’s a Rembrandt, my Lord. I picked it up—but perhaps your Lordship will kindly inspect it.”

He led the Marquis up to the picture, and stood aside, waiting confidently to hear him go into ecstasies about it. But the Marquis went into no ecstasies. Instead, he made short work of his job. Taking down the picture and turning it about in very workmanlike and matter of fact fashion, he suddenly put it on the table and snorted.

“Fake, Gosling! That’s no Rembrandt—it’s not even old. Modern canvas—modern stretcher. Wardour Street stuff!”

Benjamin felt as if the world was going round with him. He gasped.

“Not—not a Rembrandt, my Lord? Not—your Lordship sure?”

“Dead certain, Gosling! Ought to know, too—got six and thirty of ’em up at the castle. Lord bless you, man, this thing’s been done within the last twelve months! Hope you haven’t been let in for anything serious?”

But Benjamin wasn’t going to tell his Lordship that: his Lordship was well known as an inveterate gossip, and the story would have been all over the neighborhood in a week. He managed to control himself, and put the question aside. He was thankful, however, when the Marquis, after sampling Benjamin’s old brown sherry, bustled off again; it left Benjamin free to hurry to the post-office close by. There he despatched a telegram to Sir Henry Wildacre: Sir Henry, at any rate, did not think the picture a fake, and his money was as good as the Marquis’s. He felt better when the telegram was on the way. Still, he had no great appetite for his dinner. And his after-dinner cigar went out and was thrown into the grate when a message came along from the post-office. Benjamin’s telegram to Sir Henry Wildacre couldn’t be delivered, for the Shrewsbury postal people reported that there was no such place as Wildacre Hall and no such person as Sir Henry Wildacre—in their district, at any rate.

Benjamin went very near to having a seizure that afternoon. But he did not send for Dr. Pepperdeane. And when Dr. Pepperdeane next looked in at the Marquis’s Arms, and saw that the Rembrandt had disappeared, and remarked upon its disappearance, Benjamin replied curtly that it had been disposed of. Certainly it had been disposed of: Benjamin had disposed of it in a lumber room upstairs. If he ever chances to visit that room, and his eyes fall on his purchase, he sighs deeply and reflects on the depravity of sinful nature and on the fiendish ingenuity of those human wolves who are always on the lookout for innocent lambs like himself.