“I will buy it,” said Hawksley, sinking back.
“Sir,” began the dealer, “I am horribly embarrassed. I cannot sell that violin because it isn't mine. It is an Amati worth ten thousand dollars.”
“I will give you twelve.”
“But, sir—”
“Name a price,” interrupted Hawksley, rather imperiously. “I want it.”
Cutty understood that he was witnessing a flash of the ancient blood. To want anything was to have it.
“I repeat, sir, I cannot sell it. It belongs to a Hungarian who is now in Hungary. I loaned him fifteen hundred and took the Amati as security. Until I learn if he is dead I cannot dispose of the violin. I am sorry. But because you are a real artist, sir, I will loan it to you if you will make a deposit of ten thousand against any possible accident, and that upon demand you will return the instrument to me.”
“That's fair enough,” interposed Cutty.
“I beg pardon,” said Hawksley. “I agree. I want it, but not at the price of any one's dishonesty.”
He turned his head toward Cutty, “You're a thoroughbred, sir. This will do more to bring me round than all the doctors in the world.”