“All right,” he said, “leave it to me; I’ll see what can be done, but these aren’t times to buy, you know.”
“So you said,” Peter replied, and went gently out of the room.
The next morning Ringsmith was early at his office. After looking over his letters he sent for MacTavish. The shrewd Scotsman was said to be the cleverest picture-buyer in the country. He came in, a tall, thin man, clean-shaven, with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Ringsmith doesn’t stand on terms of ceremony with his employees: he comes to the point at once.
“D’you remember that Corot we sold to Peter Whelan of Philadelphia? When was it—two or three years ago?”
“Certainly I do, Mr. Ringsmith.”
“Can you say off-hand what we made on that deal?”
“No,” replied MacTavish cautiously, “but I do remember what we gave for it, and what we sold it for. There were a lot of expenses on that deal.” There was a cunning look in MacTavish’s eyes as he added the last words.
“Um, yes—what were the figures?”
“We gave £4,000, but it included those ormulu vases which Joyce sold for us at Christie’s. You remember we were wrong about those, and it took some of the gilt off.”
Ringsmith’s heavy eyebrows met in a scowl.