“No; Dormer Colville.”
“Oh yes!” said John Turner, returning to the cold tongue. “Yes; a charming fellow.”
And he glanced again at his friend, with a queer smile. When luncheon was finished, Turner led the way to a small smoking-room, where they would be alone, and sent a messenger to fetch Septimus Marvin’s bag from downstairs.
“We will have a look at your precious engraving,” he said, “while we smoke a cigar. It is, I suppose, a relic of the Great Monarchy, and I may tell you that there is rather a small demand just now for relics of that period. It would be wiser not to take it into the open market. I think my client would give you as good a price as any; and I suppose you want to get as much as you can for it now that you have made up your mind to the sacrifice?”
Marvin suppressed a sigh, and rubbed his hands together with that forced jocularity which had made his companion turn grave once before.
“Oh, I mean to drive a hard bargain, I can tell you!” was the reply, with an assumption of worldly wisdom on a countenance little calculated to wear that expression naturally.
“What did your friend in the print-shop on the Quai Voltaire mention as a probable price?” asked Turner, carelessly.
“Well, he said he might be able to sell it for me at four thousand francs. I would not hear of his running any risk in the matter, however. Such a good fellow, he is. So honest.”
“Yes, he is likely to be that,” said Turner, with his broad smile. He was a little sleepy after a heavy luncheon, and sipped his coffee with a feeling of charity toward his fellow-men. “You would find lots of honest men in the Quai Voltaire, Sep. I will tell you what I will do. Give me the print, and I will do my best for you. Would ten thousand francs help you out of your difficulties?”
“I do not remember saying that I was in difficulties,” objected the Reverend Septimus, with heightened colour.