Pleased with the prospect of remunerative sales, Marston’s agent made his entrance jauntily. The shabbiness of the old days had been put by. He was now sprucely clothed, and in his lapel he wore a bunch of violets.
His thin, dissipated face was adorned with a rakishly trimmed mustache and Vandyke of gray which still held a fading trace of its erstwhile sandy red. His eyes were pale and restless as he stood bowing at the door. The afternoon was waning, and the lights had not yet been turned on.
“Mr. Steele?” he inquired.
Steele nodded.
St. John looked expectantly toward the girl in the shadow, as though awaiting an introduction, which was not forthcoming. As he looked, he seemed to grow suddenly nervous and ill-at-ease.
“You are Mr. Marston’s agent, I believe?” Steele spoke crisply.
“I have had that honor since Mr. Marston left Paris some years ago. You know, doubtless, that the master spends his time in foreign travel.” The agent spoke with a touch of self-importance.
“I want you to deliver to me here the portrait and the landscape now on exhibition at Milan,” ordered the American.
“It will be difficult—perhaps expensive—but I think it may be possible.” St. John spoke dubiously.
Steele’s eyes narrowed.