“A Nanteuil—engraved from his own drawing, Jack—a real Nanteuil. I have just been to a man I know—the print-shop opposite the statue on the Quai Voltaire—to have my own opinion verified. I was sure of it. He says that I am undoubtedly right. It is a genuine Nanteuil—a proof before letters.”
“Ah! And you have just picked it up cheap? Picked it up, eh?”
“No, no, quite the contrary,” Marvin replied, in a confidential whisper.
“Stolen—dear, dear! I am sorry to hear that, Septimus.”
And Septimus Marvin broke into the jerky, spasmodic laugh of one who has not laughed for long—perhaps for years.
“Ah, Jack,” he said; “you are still up to a joke.”
“Well, I should hope so. We are quite close to my club. Come, and have luncheon, and tell me all about it.”
So the Social and Sporting Club, renowned at that day for its matchless cuisine and for nothing else of good repute at all, entertained an angel unawares, and was much amused at Septimus Marvin’s appearance, although the amusement was not apparent. The members, it would appear, were gentlemen of that good school of old France which, like many good things both French and English, is fast disappearing. And with all those faults, which we are so ready to perceive in any Frenchman, there is none on earth who will conceal from you so effectually the fact that in his heart he is vastly amused.
It was with some difficulty that Septimus was persuaded to consign his carpet-bag to the custody of the hall-porter.
“If it wasn’t a Nanteuil,” he explained in a whisper to his friend, “I should have no hesitation; for I am sure the man is honest and in every way to be relied upon. But a Nanteuil—ad vivum—Jack. There are none like him. It is priceless.”