"M'sieur!"
He seemed to choke. His sudden passion was volcanic—terrible.
Dr. Lepardo, still peering, seemed not to heed him; then quickly:
"Ah, I apologise, I most sincerely apologise. I was misled by the unusual tone of the brown. But—no, it is undoubted. None other than Van Dyck painted that ruff."
The Count glared and quivered, his fine nostrils distended, a while longer, but swallowed his rage and bowed in acknowledgment of the apology. Dr. Lepardo was off again upon his voyage of discovery, drifting from picture to vase, from statuette to buhl cabinet.
"M'sieur," he rumbled, peering around at de Guise, who now stood by the fireplace of the room to which the visitor's driftings had led him, his hands locked behind him. "I think I can propose you for the entire collection. Is it agreeable?"
The Count bowed.
"Ah!"
M. Levi seated himself at the writing-table—for the room was a beautifully appointed study—and produced a cheque-book.
"Twenty thousand pounds, English?"