"Why, your going to Birmingham. And you think it's a deadly place! Haven't you ever heard of Gilbert Tanfold?"
Mr. Tombs nodded.
"Sells pictures, doesn't he? Yes, I've had some of 'em. I didn't think they were so hot."
Mr. Tanfold was so happy that this aspersion on his Art glanced off him like a pea off a tortoise.
"You can't have had any of his good ones," he said. "He keeps those for people he knows personally. I met him last week, and he showed me pictures… " Mr. Tanfold went into details which eclipsed even his adventures in Paris. "The coincidence is," he wound up, "that I've got an invitation to go to Birmingham on Friday myself and visit his studio."
Mr. Tombs swallowed so that his Adam's apple jiggered up and down.
"Gosh," he said jealously, "that ought to be interesting. I wish I had your luck."
Tanfold's face lengthened commiseratingly, as if the thought that his new-found friend would be unable to share his good fortune had taken away all his enthusiasm for the project. And then, as if the solution had only just struck him, he brightened again.
"But why shouldn't you?" he demanded. "I said we'd pool our resources, and I ought to be able to arrange it. Now, suppose we go to Birmingham together — that is, if you don't think I'm thrusting myself on you too much—"
And that part also was absurdly easy; so that Mr. Gilbert Tanfold returned to his more modest hotel much later that night with his heart singing the happy song of a vulture diving on a particularly fruity morsel of carrion. He had not even had to devise any pretext to induce the simple Tombs to travel to Birmingham — Mr. Tombs had already planned the trip in his itinerary with a thoughtfulness which almost suggested that he had foreseen Mr. Tanfold's need. And yet, once again, this obvious explanation never occurred seriously to Gilbert Tanfold. He preferred to believe in miracles wrought for his benefit by a kindly Providence, which was a disastrous error for him to make.