As this was the highest bidding, the picture was knocked down to our hero, who, having cracked his joke, and gratified his swaggering propensities, was about to beat a retreat, when he found his elbow twitched by a nervous, eager little man,—a duodecimo edition of a virtuoso,—who had only that moment entered the room.
"So you have purchased that Paul Potter, sir, I understand," said the stranger, wiping the perspiration from his bald head, and evidently struggling with his vexation.
Dick nodded an affirmative, not a little curious to know what would come next.
"Bless my soul, how unlucky! To think that I should have been only five minutes too late, and such a run as I had for it! Excuse the liberty I am taking, but have you any wish to be off your bargain, sir?—not that I am particularly anxious about the picture—I merely ask for information; that's all, sir, I assure you," added the virtuoso, aware that he had committed himself, and endeavouring to retrieve his blunder.
Dick cast one of his most searching glances at the stranger; and, reading in his countenance the anxiety he would fain have concealed under a show of indifference, said in his slyest and most composed manner, "May I beg to be favoured with your name, sir?"
"Smithson, sir,—Richard Smithson, agent to Lord Theodore Thickskull, whose picture-gallery I have the honour of a commission to furnish; and happening to read a day or two ago in the "Times" that a few old paintings were to be disposed of by auction here on the premises, I thought, perhaps——"
"Indeed! That alters the case," replied our hero with an air of dignified courtesy, "for I have some slight acquaintance with his lordship myself."
"Bless my soul, how odd!—how uncommon odd! Possibly, then, for my lord's sake, you will not object to——"
"No," replied Dick smiling, "I did not say that."
"Rely on it, sir," continued the fidgety little virtuoso, "you are mistaken in your estimate of that painting. They say it is a Paul Potter; but it's no such thing—no such thing, sir."