“No, nor his double, Thomas Smith of the Ritz; but he asked me to meet him here at 5 o’clock, Bateato.”
“Ees sair!” lisped the Jap, with a bob of the head; then dived back to his occupation of making the long deserted room look presentable.
As Bateato followed his master’s friend into the room he switched on the full glare of electric lights that depended from the ceiling or blazed through the shades of many lamps. Whitney Barnes blinked for a moment, and then started as his gaze was directed to the walls hung with masterpieces.
The work of Rubens, Rembrandt, Coret, Meissonier, Lely, Cazzin, Vegas, Fragonard, Reynolds and a score others of the world’s greatest masters leaped across his vision as he turned from wall to wall, revolving on his heel.
“Whew!” he ejaculated. “I didn’t know that Travers went in for this sort of thing. He certainly is the secretive little oyster when he wants to be.”
Still studying the portraits and landscapes and allegorical groups, he voiced to Bateato a sudden thought.
“By the way, Bateato, do you know what it was that brought your master back in this strange fashion and the reason for all this secrecy?”
“No, sair,” responded the Jap.
“Well, it’s damned peculiar!” muttered the young man to himself, and proceeded on a tour about the room to examine more closely its wealth of art treasure. He had been engaged in this way about five minutes when the door bell rang and Bateato cried: