Quinney lifted his eyebrows; the first indication of interest in his visitor.
"A trip—abroad?"
"To France. I've heard of a man in Brittany—a wonder. His line is old oak; mostly copies of famous pieces. He's the greatest faker in the world, and an artist. No blunders! Would you like to go into a deal with me? You know old oak when you see it?"
"I think so."
"You go over there and buy five hundred pounds' worth and put it into this shop, after you've cleared out the rubbish. I'll go halves. It's a dead cert, and this is the right place for the stuff. My pitch wouldn't do, and I haven't the room. I'll send you customers."
"It's a go," said Quinney.
"You mean to make things hum? And I can help you. Never gave you credit for being so sharp."
Details were then discussed, not worth recording; but during this memorable interview, which led to so much, Quinney was sensible of an ever-increasing exaltation and powers of speech which amazed him as much as the older man. He announced curtly his intention of getting rid of the rubbish, repainting and redecorating the premises, and dealing for the future in the best, whether fakes or genuine antiques.
"Never could persuade the old man that the 'Genuine Antiques' card was a dead give-away."
Fired with enthusiasm, he seized the card and tore it up there and then, while Tomlin applauded generously.