“Yes, yes, smart chap,” said number one, “but keen on the main chance. Ever hear the story of old Mrs. Mace’s Romney? Old Mrs. Mace, widow of his friend, owned a great Romney. He was hard on its track and sent an agent, who valued it, as a good copy, at two hundred. The old lady indignantly refuses. The collector goes off to Mexico to investigate the Talahiti excavations, but sends a second agent, who declares it to be worth all of three hundred. The old lady, finally, at the cud of everything, sells. The Romney disappears. When her money goes, the old lady in despair dies. Now, his Romney sells high in the thousands. Not a nice story, what?”
The chorus admitted that it was not, and I sat petrified, and thankful that I had a relative among the elect. Number two spoke:
“There is big betting on his wager with Dantrè. He swears to better Dantrè’s exhibits with a gem that will knock them into cockles. Says he can produce a genuine original Fierienti.”
“Piffle!” exclaimed number three. “There were two Fierientis, the Laughing Duchess, destroyed in the great fire of London, and its copy, made by Fierienti, now in the Metropolitan.”
Arguing this point they passed on and I sat with face bent over the book, and with thought rushing tumultuously. My picture, at Brookchase, was the original Fierienti, the copy of which was in the Metropolitan. Of this there had never been a doubt; the Chevalier de Russy, member of the French Academy, had vouched for it, when on a visit to grandma. Besides, I had its records. Who, then, was “he”? And where could “he” find another original Fierienti?
I was on my feet to follow and find out, when Prince’s words swung back to me: “Knowing your incredible enthusiasms—” I sank back, crushing down impulse, and then, under a desperate desire for action, gave his number to the local exchange, and entered booth number four.
Inside the booth, through the blurred reflection of my own image upon the glass, I discerned the outline of a man, in the adjoining booth: a smooth, dark head bent upon a slender hand, above which was visible an odd cufflink, two swastikas in red Roman gold. My call was answered by Prince’s old housekeeper.
“This is Miss Legree,” I said. Then came Prince’s voice: “What luck, Enid?”
“None,” I replied. “Penwick is away for the day, and I am glad that I left the Fierienti at home, although I am eager to solve a mystery. I overheard something about another Fierienti, whereas I know that there is no other. I will be at Brookchase by the four o’clock express, but can walk to the gate at the crossroads.”
Prince laughed, and as I rang off I clearly heard the voice of the man in the adjoining booth, repeating his number. He, in turn then, must have overheard me. Dismissing this as irrelevant, I went to the station and waited morosely until the afternoon express bore me back to the realization of being the poorer by one railroad fare.