prepared to plunge into his work. The office-boy, who had been
stricken dumb at his senior's appearance, recovered himself at last
sufficiently for speech.

"My eye!" he exclaimed. "Whose clothes have you been stealing? What
have you been up to, eh? Committing a burglary or a murder?"

Burton shook his head.

"Nothing of the sort," he replied pleasantly. "The fact is I came to
the conclusion that my late style of dress, as you yourself somewhat
eloquently pointed out yesterday, was unbecoming."

The boy seemed a little dazed.

"You look half way between a toff and an artist!" he declared. "What's
it all about, anyway? Have you gone crazy?"

"I don't think so," Burton replied. "I rather think I have come to my
senses. Have you got those last furniture accounts?"

"No use starting on that job," Clarkson informed him, genially. "The
guvnor wants you down at the salesrooms, you've got to clerk for him."

Burton looked very blank indeed. A flood of unpleasant recollections
assailed him. He had lied a good deal in the letting of houses, but he
had lied more still in the auction room. And to-day's sale! He knew
all about it! He knew a great deal more than under the circumstances it
was wise for him to know!

"I quite forgot," he said slowly, "that there was a sale to-day. I
don't suppose Mr. Waddington would let you take my place, Clarkson?"

"Not on your life!" the boy replied. "I've got to stay here and boss
the show. You'd better hurry along, too. It's Thursday morning and you
know the people come in early. Lord, what a guy you look!"

Very slowly and very reluctantly Burton made his way through the gloomy
warehouse and into the salesrooms, which were approached from the street
by a separate entrance. He knew exactly what was before him and he
realized that it must be the end. Mr. Waddington, who had not yet
mounted the rostrum, saw him come in, stared at him for several moments
in his gray clothes and Homburg hat, and turned away to spit upon the
floor. A woman with a catalogue in her hand--evidently an intending
purchaser--gripped Burton by the arm.

"I say, mister, you're the auctioneer's clerk, aren't you?"

"I am," he admitted.

"About that h'oil painting, now--the one of Gladstone. My old man's
fair dotty on Gladstone and it's his birthday to-morrow. If it's all
right, I thought I might make him a present. It says in the catalogue
'Artist unknown.' I suppose, as it's a real oil painting, it's worth a