nd fifty
dollars, according to size. There was a patron to supply unlimited
colours and stretchers, a pocket that never refused to advance a small
bill when thirst or lesser need found Campbell Corot penniless. Almost
inevitably he passed from occasional to habitual forgery, consoling
himself with the thought that he never signed the pictures and, before
the law at least, was blameless. But signed they all were somewhere
between their furtive entrance at Beilstein's basement and their
appearance on his walls or in the auction rooms. Of course it wasn't the
blackguard Beilstein who forged the five magic letters; he would never
take the risk, 'Blast his dirty soul!' cried Campbell Corot aloud, as he
seethed with the memory of his shame. He rose as if for summary
vengeance, to the amazement of the quiet topers in the room. For some
time his utterance had been getting both excited and thick, and now I
saw with a certain chagrin that the Glengyle had done its work only too
well. It was a question not of hearing his story out, but of getting him
home before worse befell. By mingled threats and blandishments I got him
away from Nickerson's, and after an adventurous passage down Cedar
Street, I deposited him before his attic door, in a doubtful frame of
mind, being alternately possessed by the desire to send Beilstein to
hell and to pray for the eternal welfare of the only genuine Corot."

"You certainly make queer acquaintances," ejaculated the Patron uneasily.

"Hurry up and tell us the rest; it's growing late," insisted the
Antiquary, as he beckoned for the bill.

"I saw Campbell Corot only once more, but occasionally I saw his work,
and it told a sad tale of deterioration. The sunrises and nymphals no
longer deceived anybody, having fallen nearly to the average level of
auction-room impressionism. I was not surprised, then, when running into
him near Nickerson's one day I felt that drink and poverty were speeding
their work. He tried to pass me unrecognised, but I stopped him, and
once more the invitation to a nip proved irresistible. My curiosity was
keen to learn his attitude toward his own work and that of his master,
and I attempted to draw him out with a crass compliment. He denied me
gently. 'The best things I do, or rather did, young feller, are jest a
little poorer than his worst. Between ourselves, he painted some pretty
bum things. Some I suppose he did, like me, by lamplight. Some he
sketched with one hand whil