I had no idea that the painting before me was genuine—nor indeed did I much care. But this little, withered old man, and his musty, cobweb-laden shop, had about them something vaguely sinister that fascinated me—a subtle sense of mystery I could not escape.
“I have studied art,” I said. “You interest me.”
Again I met his glittering eyes, and it struck me then, I think for the first time, that there was in them a light that was not the light of reason.
For an instant I could see him hesitate, and then as though he had reached a sudden decision, he motioned me to a chair and seated himself, facing me in the red glow of the lantern overhead.
“The señor is very young,” he began softly; again he hesitated, glancing swiftly over his shoulder as if to reassure himself that there was no one else in the room. “Very young, señor, but also—shall we say —very rich?”
His eyes were fastened upon mine; the red beam from the lantern lighted his hollow cheeks with a weird, unearthly light. I took off my hat and laid it on the table at my side.
“That need not concern us,” I said.
“Muy bien, señor. We understand each other segurimente. Of the character I am judge—for I am an old señor, and many people have I known.”
He pulled a watch from his pocket. “The hour is late. No one comes to buy.” He rose to his feet and locked the door that led to the street.
“That is better, señor.” He came back toward me with his tottering, dragging step, and switched off the amber light in the ceiling. “The señor will remove his storm-coat?”