London and Paris.
Count de Guise hesitated, glanced at his caller, glanced at his watch, cleared his throat—and still hesitated.
"If I approve," continued 'Isidor Levi,' "I will hand you a cheque on the Crédit Lyonnais."
The Count bowed.
"Enter, M. Levi. Your name, of course, is known to me."
Indeed it was a name familiar enough in art circles.
Dr. Lepardo entered.
The room into which the Count ushered him was most magnificently appointed. The visitor's feet sank into the carpet as into banked moss. Beautiful furniture stood about. Pictures by eminent artists graced the walls. Statuettes, vases, busts, choice antiques, were everywhere. It was the room of a wealthy connoisseur, of an æsthete whose delicacy of taste bordered upon the effeminate. The doctor stared hard at the Count without permitting the latter to observe that he did so. With his hands thrust deep in the sack-like pockets of his inverness he drifted from treasure to treasure—uninvited, from room to room—like some rudderless craft. The Count followed. In his handsome face it might be read that he resented the attitude of M. Levi, who behaved as though he found himself in the gallery of a dealer. Suddenly, before a Van Dyck portrait, the visitor cried:
"Ah, a forgery, m'sieur! Spurious."
Count de Guise leapt round upon him with perfect fury blazing in his blue eyes. The veins had sprung into prominence upon his forehead, and one throbbed—a virile blue cord—upon his left temple.