“Who is this insolent one?” he sputtered.
“I will make you a sporting proposition,” said Philip. “You can take it, or leave it. You two will get into a taxi. You will drive to this man's studio in Tate Street. You will find your Velasquez is there and not on its way to Liverpool. And you will find one exactly like it, and a dozen other 'old masters' half-finished. I'll bet you a hundred pounds I'm right! And I'll bet this man a hundred pounds that he DOESN'T DARE TAKE YOU TO HIS STUDIO!”
“Indeed, I will not,” roared the German. “It would be to insult myself.”
“It would be an easy way to earn a hundred pounds, too,” said Philip.
“How dare you insult the Baron?” demanded Faust. “What makes you think—”
“I don't think, I know!” said Philip. “For the price of a taxi-cab fare to Tate Street, you win a hundred pounds.”
“We will all three go at once,” cried the German. “My car is outside. Wait here. I will have it brought to the door?”
Faust protested indignantly.
“Do not disturb yourself, Baron,” he said; “just because a fresh reporter—”
But already the German had reached the hall. Nor did he stop there. They saw him, without his hat, rush into Piccadilly, spring into a taxi, and shout excitedly to the driver. The next moment he had disappeared.