“You suppose wrong, Whitney,” he said, shortly. “That isn’t––so––horribly––valuable.”
“What! A big painting like that, by a chap famous enough to have a hat named after him.”
“That was just about the way it struck me at first,” answered Gladwin, “so I begged two old gentlemen in London to let me have it. Persuaded them to part with it for a mere five hundred pounds, on condition––close attention, Whitney––that I keep the matter a secret. I was delighted with my bargain––until I saw the original.”
“The original?”
“Ah ha! the original. It was quite a shock for me to come face to face with that and realize that my ‘Blue Boy’ had a streak of yellow in him.”
“That sounds exciting,” cried Barnes. “What did you do? Put the case in the hands of the police?”
“Not much,” denied Gladwin emphatically. “That would have given the public a fine laugh. It deceived me, so I hung it up there to deceive others. It got you, you see. But you are the only one I’ve let into the secret––don’t repeat it, will you?”
“Never!” promised Barnes. “It’ll be too much of a lark to hear others rave over it.”
“Thank you,” acknowledged the bitten collector, curtly.