"Nothing to interest you, Mr. Quinney."
"Perhaps not. I'll have a squint round as I am here."
The auctioneer accompanied him, and Quinney soon found his picture, which was very dirty and inconspicuous. Old masters were not in his line, but he recognized the frame at once as being genuine—a fine specimen of carved wood, although much battered. The auctioneer said carelessly:
"I had a gentleman staring at that picture this morning. You're after the frame, I dare say."
Quinney made no reply. He saw that a small portion of the dirty canvas had been rubbed.
"Might look quite different if it was cleaned," said the auctioneer. "The other fellow did that with his handkerchief and a small bottle of stuff he carried in his pocket. I didn't like to object. Colour comes out nicely!"
"Who does it belong to?"
"A stranger to me. I take everything as it comes. I'm in a small way of business, as you know, Mr. Quinney; but some nice stuff has passed through my hands."
He plunged into an ocean of reminiscences, punctuating his remarks with lamentations of ignorance.
"If I really knew. Suppose it's a gift. You have it, Mr. Quinney. I have a sort of general knowledge of values, but it's the special knowledge that picks up the big bargains."