I groaned in reality then, and resignedly began to dress.
“Well, go on—I’m listening,” I said, with a very bad grace, which, however, he was too grief-stricken to notice.
“Well, I was swindled in buying the violin—regularly diddled,” he said, with some exasperation.
“You were swindled? I thought it was the other way?” I said, stopping in surprise.
“So did I, but I was mistaken,” he answered, with a writhe. “This was how it happened. I was playing at Newcastle last year, when a man named John Mackintosh, who said he had a real Cremona violin, or one that was said to be real, called upon me, and said he wanted my opinion of it. I had nothing to do during the day, so I went to his shop,—a little den down near the New Quay, in which he sold ginger beer, sweets, and newspapers,—and saw at a glance that it was a splendid instrument. It was of no use to him, for he is only a wretched scraper, who would be as happy with a twelve-and-sixpenny German fiddle, so I determined if possible to get him to sell it. He asked what I thought of it, and I said indifferently that it might be a real Cremona and it might not, but it was worth about £10.”
“That would be a lie, of course?” I quietly observed.
“Well, in a sense, yes,” he stammered, flushing a little. “You know I was speaking professionally.”
“Oh, indeed? Professionals always lie, then?”
“No, no—you mistake. I mean that professionals can never afford to give so much as ordinary buyers with lots of money. But the man was deeper than I had expected—he’s a Scotchman, you know, and they’re always cursed long-headed. He said, ‘Ah, but I wadna gie that fiddle for twice £10.’ I laughed at him, but at length I said I would buy it from him, and give him the £20. Blast him, then I found he wouldn’t sell it at all!”
“And you came away without it?”