"I could not carry it," I said with a shrug.
"I will send the article," he answered, eagerly pulling a soiled bit of paper and the end of a pencil from his pocket. "What is monsieur's address?"
"He is anxious to know where I live: that is evident," said I to my usual confidant as I moved on and stopped before a table which had once been inlaid, but which now presented the appearance of a painted beauty whose rouge has dropped off.
"Monsieur's choice is wise," said the merchant, following me. "Real Louis Quatorze: and besides its beauty it has a secret drawer to recommend it. That, however, I can only show you in the privacy of your own apartment."
"I think he wants to steal the portrait," I remarked to the invisible presence accompanying me. Then I asked the dealer, watching him closely the while, "Have you any pictures to sell?"
Sticks coughed nervously, looked about him, and walked the whole length of his shop, dusting the things with his red cap, before he spoke. He must have been much preoccupied thus rashly to destroy the venerable appearance of his stock. Then he said, "Perhaps you might have one you would sell?"
"I suppose you mean the one I bought of you. Why do you want it? In what does its value lie? What is the secret connected with it?"
The old man could not repress an involuntary "Hush!" Then recovering himself, he asked, "Will you sell it? I offer double what you gave."
I shook my head negatively.
"Name your price," he begged eagerly.