Ebag. (After lighting-cigarette.) I did. I knew from the very first picture I bought from our friend the "picture-dealer and frame-maker" in the early part of last year.
[107]Carve. But I'd completely altered my style. I altered it on purpose.
Ebag. (Shaking his head.) My dear sir, there was once a well-known man who stood six feet ten inches high. He shaved off his beard and dyed his hair, and invented a very ingenious costume, and went to a Fancy Dress Ball as Tom Thumb. Strange to say, his disguise was penetrated immediately.
Carve. Who are you?
Ebag. My name is Ebag—New Bond Street.
Carve. What! You're my old dealer!
Ebag. And I'm delighted at last to make your acquaintance, sir. It wasn't until I'd bought several of those small canvases from the Putney man that I began to inquire closely into their origin. As a general rule it's a mistake for a dealer to be too curious. But my curiosity got the better of me. And when I found out that the pictures were being produced week by week, fresh, then I knew I was on the edge of some mystery.
Carve. (Awkwardly.) The fact is, perhaps, I ought to explain.
Ebag. Pardon me. I ask nothing. It isn't my affair. I felt certain, solely from the evidence of what I was buying, that the great painter who was supposed to be buried in Westminster Abbey, and whose somewhat premature funeral I attended, must be alive
[108]and painting vigorously. I wanted the assurance from your lips. I have it. The rest does not concern me—at any rate, for the moment.