Clayton dropped his hand, instantly mollified. "I wish you would see what you can do," he cordially said. "Perhaps the lady only purchased it to fill a place on the walls of her drawing room. I, at least, would like to be allowed to open it and have you take the particulars. If she has no objection, you might be able to order me a replica."
Lilienthal stood musing for a moment with his ferret eyes gleaming under their bushy brows. "I might try! Suppose you look in here after your lunch. The fact is," laughed the dealer, "Fräulein Gluyas only took a sudden fancy to the Danube view a few days ago. And she has gone down to the bank to get the money to gratify her whim. She seemed to think some one else might claim it, and she dropped in a half an hour ago, and ordered it packed up. She will take it home in her carriage, as such a proof can be easily injured."
Randall Clayton's eyes were fixed on the floor, as he nodded an assent. "I'll be back in half an hour. See what you can do," he pleasantly said. "And at any rate, I'll be thankful to be allowed to have the data."
"I think I can fix it all right," genially remarked Lilienthal. "Fräulein Gluyas is a Hungarian prima donna of rare merit, an artist, too, of no mean order. She may be heard here in grand opera this winter. She is living in retirement until Mr. Grau's return, as she does not want to be heralded before the public."
Clayton tried to appear unconcerned as he asked, "Is she married?"
"She is single," carelessly remarked Lilienthal, showing Clayton to the door. "And I am told she has refused some very eligible offers at home. But she is a Magyar of an old and noble family and they detest the Austrian nobility, who have now all the fortunes and privileges of the old Hungarian noblesse."
With crimsoned cheeks Randall Clayton was speeding away to the bank before he had digested the crafty dealer's story. He was reassured at the mention of Robert Wade's name and, hemmed in, all in ignorance that his grave-mannered superior often met a bit of very lively "French color" in the luxurious solitude of the "private view" room, as yet a terra incognita to the young cashier.
For Mr. Robert Wade had a "Sunday-school reputation" to support, and was dignified, worldly wise, a pillar of a fashionable church, and hence, duly sly. His left hand often wisted not the doings of his right hand, and Lilienthal found in Mr. Robert Wade a judicious and accommodating patron.
"This is a simple-minded youth," grinned Lilienthal, as he turned away. "He has swallowed my story, and—I fancy I see Mr. Fritz Braun's little game. I wonder if the Vienna witch is still over there. I must hurry up and post her. This young chap may be a good customer, for he handles plenty of money." And the brisk Figaro darted away, his eyes gleaming in the ardor of the undying covetousness of the Israelite.
While Mr. Adolph Lilienthal was cautiously conducting a Philadelphia money magnate into the "Private Gallery," a closely veiled lady was entering that sanctum from the photographer's hall. The secret of the two double rings of the push button admitted her to the "packing room," where an innocent-faced young German lad stood guard over the complicated system of letter boxes, telegraph racks, and telephones in that jealously guarded "packing room."