“Yes, when you know who painted them, and if you happen to have the eye of a connoisseur.”
“And what in creation is this?” exclaimed Barnes, as he stumbled against the great ornamental chest which stood against the wall just beneath the Rembrandt and Corot.
“Oh, let’s get the exhibition over,” said Gladwin, peevishly. “That’s a treasure chest. Cost me a barrel––picked it up in Egypt.”
“You never picked it up in your life,” retorted Barnes, grasping the great metal bound chest and striving vainly to lift it. “Anything in it?” he asked, lifting the lid and answering himself in the negative.
“What’s the whole collection worth?” asked Barnes, as he returned to where his friend was standing, gazing ruefully at “The Blue Boy.”
“Oh, half a million or more. I really never kept track.”
“Half a million! And you go abroad and leave all these things unguarded? You certainly are fond of taking chances. It’s a marvel they haven’t been stolen before now.”
“Nonsense,” said Gladwin. “I have a burglar alarm set here, and I’ll wager there aren’t half a dozen persons who know the Gladwin collection is hung in this house.”
“Just the same––but I say, Travers, there’s the door bell. Were you expecting anybody else.”