“Kindly don’t refer to the subject of that portrait as fellow,” the other caught him up. “That is my great-grandfather, painted by Gilbert Charles Stuart more than a century ago.”
“You monumental liar,” was on Gladwin’s lips. He managed to stifle the outburst and ask:
“Are yez goin’ to take all these pictures away with yez to-night?”
“Oh, no, not all of them,” was the careless reply. “Only the best ones.”
“How unspeakably kind of him!” thought the unregarded victim.
“If yez wanted the others,” he said with fine sarcasm, “I could pack ’em up afther ye’re gone an’ sind thim to yez.”
“That might be a good idea, Officer––I’ll think it over,” the pilferer thanked him.
Then he went on with his task of taking the back out of the mounting of the Rubens, showing that he did not trust his knife with such an ancient and priceless canvas.
Gladwin was thinking up another ironic opening when the door bell rang. He jumped and cried: