“Come in!”
The door swung back, the velvet curtains parted, and the little man made a step into the great painter’s spacious studio.
“Oh, I have such a fine sitter for you!” he whispered, with his hand still grasping the curtain. “Such a distinguished-looking man he is—like a pope—like a doge. It will make a great Franz Hal; such a big spot of white hair and black coat and red face. He’s coming to-morrow and——”
“Who is coming to-morrow?” asked Gregg. His tone would have swamped any other man. He had recognized the dealer with a simple “Good-morning,” and had kept his place before his easel, the overhead light falling on his upturned mustache and crisp gray hair.
The little man rubbed his soft, flabby hands together, and tiptoed to where Gregg stood as noiseless as a detective approaching a burglar.
“The big banker,” he whispered. “Did you not get my letter? The price is no object. I can show you the order.” He had reached the easel now and was standing with bent head, an unctuous smile playing about his lips.
“No, I don’t want to see it,” remarked Gregg, squeezing a tube on his palette. “I can’t reach it for some time, you know.”
“Yes, I have told them so, but the young gentleman wants to have the entry made on the minutes and have the money appropriated. I had great confidence, you see, in your goodness,” and the little man touched his forehead with one skinny finger and bowed obsequiously.
“I thought you said he had white hair.”
“So he has. The portrait is to hang up in the directors’ room of one of the big copper companies. The young gentleman is a member of the banking firm that is to pay for the picture, and is quite a young man. He buys little curios of me now and then, and he asked me whom I would recommend to paint the director’s portrait, and, of course, there is but one painter—” and the dealer bowed to the floor. “He’s coming to-morrow afternoon at four o’clock and will stay but a moment, for he’s a very busy man. You will, I know, receive him.”