"A rebate," Kennedy went on insinuatingly, "a commission on the bill—you understand? The price is immaterial, but not my—er—commission. Comprenez-vous?"
"Parfaitement," smiled the little Frenchman. "I can arrange all that. Trust me."
We spent an hour, perhaps, wandering up and down the long aisles of the store, admiring, half purchasing, absorbing facts about this, that and the other thing that might captivate the fictitious Mr. Morehouse.
Not satisfied with what was displayed so temptingly in the front of the store, Kennedy wandered back of a partition apparently in search of some more choice treasures, before Jacot could stop him. He turned over a painting that had been placed with its face toward the wall, as if for protection. I recognized the subject with a start. It was Watteau's Fête!
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Kennedy in well-feigned ecstasy, just as Jacot came up.
"Ah, but, M'sieur," interposed the art dealer, "that is only a copy—and not for sale."
"I believe my friend, Mr. Faber, has a copy," ventured Craig.
"By a Miss Fleming?" asked Jacot quickly, apparently all interest now.
Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. Was Jacot hinting at something known in the trade?
"Might I photograph some of the things here to show Mr. Morehouse?" asked Craig a moment later. "I see several things in which I think he might be interested."