er of self-control. And some malicious god did, in
fact, send an opportunity.

After tea, when Roger, in spite of efforts to confine himself to the
Duchess, had been once more drawn into the orbit of Mrs. Fairmile, as
she sat fingering a cigarette between the two men, and gossiping of
people and politics, the butler entered, and whispered a message to the
Duchess.

The mistress of the house laughed. "Chloe! who do you think has called?
Old Marcus, of South Audley Street. He's been at Brendon House--buying
up their Romneys, I should think. And as he was passing here, he wished
to show me something. Shall we have him in?"

"By all means! The last time he was here he offered you four thousand
pounds for the blue Nattier," said Chloe, with a smile, pointing to the
picture.

The Duchess gave orders; and an elderly man, with long black hair,
swarthy complexion, fine eyes, and a peaked forehead, was admitted, and
greeted by her, Mrs. Fairmile, and Dr. Lelius as an old acquaintance. He
sat down beside them, was given tea, and presented to Mr. and Mrs.
Barnes. Daphne, who knew the famous dealer by sight and reputation
perfectly well, was piqued that he did not recognize her. Yet she well
remembered having given him an important commission not more than a year
before her marriage.

As soon as a cup of tea had been dispatched, Marcus came to the
business. He drew a small leather case out of the bag he had brought
into the room with him; and the case, being opened, disclosed a small
but marvellous piece of Sevres.

"There!" he said, pointing triumphantly to a piece on the Duchess's
chimney-piece. "Your Grace asked me--oh! ten years ago--and again last
year--to find you the pair of that. Now--you have it!"

He put the two together, and the effect was great. The Duchess looked at
it with greed--the greed of the connoisseur. But she shook her head.

"Marcus, I have no money."

"Oh!" He protested, smiling and shrugging his shoulders.

"And I know you want a brigand's price for it."

"Oh, nothing--nothing at all."

The Duchess took it up, and regretfully turned it round and round.

"A thousand, Marcus?" she said, looking up.

He laughed, and would not reply.

"That means more, Marcus: how do you imagine that an old woman like me,
with only just enough for bread and butter, can waste her money on
Sevres?" He grinned. She put it down resolutely. "No! I've got a
consumptive nephew with a consumptive family. He ought to h