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226 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