The auctioneer caught the Brazilian’s nod.
“I am bid twenty-eight thousand five hundred guineas ... twenty-nine thousand,” he added, as the American nodded to him.
“Thirty,” said the Brazilian quietly.
He had not spoken before, and every gaze was turned upon him as, perfectly cool, he stood leaning against the wall in the bay of a window. He was undisturbed, from the sleekness of his head down to his immaculate shoes. He had all the assurance of one who is certain of having spoken the last word.
“I’m out of this,” said the American.
“Thirty thousand guineas are bid,” said the auctioneer; “for Lot 16 thirty thousand guineas. Thirty Thousand Guineas,” he enunciated; “going, for the sum of thirty thousand guineas, going, going,...”
Chase tottered to his feet.
“Thirty-one thousand,” he cried in a strangled voice, “thirty-one thousand!”
XVII
Of all the astonished people in that room, perhaps not the least astonished was the auctioneer. He had never seen Chase before, and naturally thought that he had to deal with an entirely new candidate. He adjusted his glasses to stare at the solitary figure upright among the rows of seated people, standing with a trembling hand still outstretched. He had just time to notice with concern that Chase was deathly pale, his face carved and hollowed, before habit reasserted itself, and he checked the “gone!” that had almost left his lips, to resume his chronicle of the bidding with “Thirty-one thousand guineas ... any advance on thirty-one thousand guineas?” and cocked his eye at the Brazilian.