"Sold!" Arthur exclaimed incredulously.
"It may be a mistake," I said slowly.
Mabane and I exchanged glances. We knew very well that, though the miniatures showed promise of talent, they were amateurish and imperfect, and the reserve which we had placed upon them was quite out of all proportion to their merit. It must surely be a mistake! We followed Isobel across the room. A little elderly gentleman was sitting before a desk, engaged in the leisurely contemplation of a small open ledger. Isobel had halted in front of him. There was a delicate flush of pink on her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant.
"Are my miniatures sold, please?" she exclaimed. "My name is Miss de Sorrens. They have a small ivory board just behind them which says 'Sold.'"
The elderly gentleman looked up, and surveyed her calmly over the top of his spectacles.
"What did you say that your name was, madam, and the number of your miniatures?" he enquired.
"Miss Isobel de Sorrens," she answered breathlessly, "and my miniatures are number two hundred and seven and eight—a portrait of an elderly lady, and two hundred and eighty-nine—a child."
The little old gentleman turned over the pages of his ledger in very leisurely fashion, and consulted a recent entry.
"Your miniatures are sold, Miss de Sorrens," he said, "for the reserve price placed upon them—twenty guineas each. The money will be paid to you on the close of the Exhibition, according to our usual custom."
"Please tell me who bought them," she begged. "I want to be quite sure that there is no mistake."