For the second time that morning Cleek sprang up in astonishment.
"Gad, man! Charles Belthouse—Charles Galveston Belthouse?" he cried.
"Yes, I think it is," returned the bewildered Superintendent. "At least his note to me this morning is signed C. G. Belthouse; but what——?"
For Cleek had sunk down, his two hands planted on his knees, a rueful and sarcastic look on his face.
"Oh! our national intelligence!" he cried. "Charles Galveston Belthouse! The man was kicked out of one of the biggest galleries in America for smuggling in forgeries of well-known masterpieces. And that man, out of all the millions in this city, is in charge of the Capitoline Venus!" He jumped up. "Well, it's no use abusing the jockey after he has sold the race. I presume you have not mentioned my name in the matter?"
"Not a word," returned Mr. Narkom, promptly. "I didn't know whether you were free."
"Ah, well, we'll see what that well-meaning and amiable individual George Headland can do."