"It is not really antique. It is a very clever imitation, not more than a few months old," came the old man's voice. He paused, the smile still lighting his face. "A genuine specimen like this one is not to be found anywhere—outside the museums." He lifted his arm with a peculiar gesture that seemed to take in the whole world.
Outwardly I remained calm, swinging my foot nonchalantly against the wooden panel of his counter. If I had burst out laughing that moment I cannot think what the old curio-dealer would have thought, but it was with difficulty that I restrained myself from doing so. Little did he know that I had just picked up a genuine black jack for a mere song! Then I told him, with gusto, my adventure with the rustic at the inn.
Suddenly he broke out:
"What was his name?"
"Copplestone—Ralph Copplestone," I replied.
"Why, he's the very rogue that sold me this one," said the old man, shaking his simple head.
"Is that possible?" I said, and I jumped down from the counter where I had perched myself. The strangest sensation came over me. I thought of the honest, open face and the innocent blue eyes of my friend the tavern-haunter.
The curio-dealer smiled quietly, sadly.