The tour of the room complete, the little man again bowed to the floor
and said in his softest voice:

"And you will receive him at four o'clock?"

"Yes, at four o'clock," answered Gregg, his eyes still on the canvas.

Again the little man's head bent low as he backed from the room. There
was no need of further talk. What Adam Gregg meant he said, and what
he said he meant. As he reached the velvet curtain through which he
had entered, he stopped.

"And now will you do something for me?"

Gregg lifted his chin with the movement of a big mastiff throwing up
his head when he scents danger. "I was waiting for that; then there is
a string to it?" he laughed.

The little man reddened to his eyebrows. The fish had not only seen
the hook under the bait, but knew who held the line.

"No, only that you come with me to Schenck's to see a portrait by
Gilbert Stuart," he pleaded. "I quite forgot--it is not often I do
forget; I must be getting old. It's to be sold to-morrow; Mr. Morlon
will buy it if you approve; he said so. I'm just from his house."

"I have a sitter at three."

"Yes, I know, but you always have a sitter. You must come--it means
something to me. I'll go and get a cab. It will not take half an hour.
It is such a beautiful Stuart. There's no doubt about it, not the
slightest; only you know Mr. Morlon, he's very exacting. He says, 'If
Mr. Gregg approves I will buy it.' These were his very words."

Gregg laid down his brushes. Little men like the one before him wasted
his time and irritated him. It was always this way--some underhand
business. Then the better side of him triumphed.

"All right!" he cried, the old sympathetic tone ringing out once more
in his voice. "Never mind about the cab; I need the air and the walk
will do me good; and then you know I can't see Mr. Morlon swindled,"
and he laughed merrily as he looked quizzically at the dealer.

* * * * *

The entrance of the distinguished painter into the gallery of the
auctioneer with his quick, alert manner and erect, military bearing,
the Legion of Honor in his lapel, soon attracted attention. Schenck
came up and shook Gregg's hands cordially, repeating his name aloud so
that every one could hear it--especially the prospective buyers, some
of whom gazed after him, remarking to their fellows, as they shielded
their lips with their catalogues: "That's Gregg!"--a name which needed
no further explanation.

"I have