"A fairly good specimen of a rather common plate," he said carelessly. "I should think it would fetch about ten pounds."
Captain Tombs looked surprised.
"Is that all?" he grumbled. "The fellow at Busby's told me I ought to get anything from three hundred up for it."
"Ah-hum," said Mr. Winlass dubiously. He peered at the print again, and raised his eyes from it in an elaborate rendering of delight. "By Jove," he exclaimed, "I believe you're right. Tricky things, these prints. If you hadn't told me that, I might have missed it altogether. But it looks as if — if it is a genuine… Well!" said Mr. Winlass expansively, "I almost think I'll take a chance on it. How about two hundred and fifty?"
"But the fellow at Busby's—"
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Winlass testily. "But these are not good times for selling this sort of thing. People haven't got the money to spend. Besides, if you wanted to get a price like that, you'd have to get the picture cleaned up — get experts to certify it — all kinds of things like that. And they all cost money. And when you'd done them all, it mightn't prove to be worth anything. I'm offering to take a gamble on it and save you a lot of trouble and expense."
Captain Tombs hesitated; and Mr. Winlass pulled out a cheque-book and unscrewed his fountain-pen.
"Come, now," he urged genially. "I believe in Getting Things Done. Make up your mind, my dear chap. Suppose we split it at two-seventy-five — or two hundred and eighty—"
"Make it two hundred and eighty-five," said Captain Tombs reluctantly, "and I suppose I'd better let it go."
Mr. Winlass signed the cheque with the nearest approach to glee that he would ever be able to achieve while parting with money in any quantity; and he knew that he was getting the print for half its value. When Captain Tombs had gone, he set it up against the inkwell and fairly gloated over it. A moment later he picked up a heavy paper-knife and attacked it with every evidence of ferocity.