“No, not that thing!” exclaimed the “collector.”
“Why, what’s the matter with this one, sorr,” snapped back Gladwin.
“It’s a fake,” said the other, contemptuously. “I paid two old frauds five hundred pounds for that 190 thing in London a couple of years ago––it’s absolutely worthless from the standpoint of art.”
Gladwin looked at him in open-mouthed amazement and slid from the chair to the floor.
How had this astounding person come by the secret of “The Blue Boy?”
There was a positive awe in Gladwin’s gaze as he sized up the big man––again from his shining patent leather shoes to his piercing eyes and broad, intellectual forehead. He fairly jumped when the command was repeated to take down the Rubens and hand it to him. As he handed it over he stammered:
“I don’t think much of this one, sorr.”
“You don’t?” said the other, in pitying disgust. “Well, it’s a Rubens––worth $40,000 if it’s worth a cent.”
“Yez don’t tell me,” Gladwin managed to articulate.
Indicating the full length portrait of the ancestral Gladwin, he added, “Who is that old fellow over there, sorr?”