"Never! Emphatically, never!"
And then the art connoisseur shook me by both hands. Then we once more inspected the donkey's ears, and in our delight nearly rose and floated from the floor in a sort of medieval saint-like ecstasy.
"You see it has one fault," my conscience made me say; "it has no signature."
"A proof that it is a genuine Von Böotz. The grand old forger never signed anything except copies. As you know, he was scarcely ever sober, and in his drunken moods used to write his name on any kind of canvas at the rate of a tumbler of port a signature."
"And it is only right to add," I continued, in my character of Devil's Advocate, and using a piece of information I had picked up from Appleblossom, Q.C., "that it is not in the least like a print which is supposed to be a contemporaneous engraving."
"The best possible proof that it is an original. Old Von Böotz—glorious old scoundrel—never painted anything that was really reproduced. He preferred to betray his public by signing the works of subordinates. That's the reason why he is so scarce. Oh, those ears!"
And the art connoisseur and I returned to our medieval saint-like ecstasy. I am almost certain that, carried away by our enthusiasm, we floated from the carpet. After a while I thought it time to return to what the Philistine (by the way, all things considered, a very reasonable fellow) would call "business." I suggested that it was for sale.
"No, my dear Sir," corrected the critic; "not for sale. The Von Böotz must be mine. You will not be so cruel as to deny me. I am the master of tens of thousands—nay, I might say without exaggeration—hundreds of thousands. If you will leave yourself in my hands, I think you will find that I am a man of honour."
He sat down at a desk which I now noticed was made of ebony and decorated with old gold and diamonds, and other precious stones. He drew a cheque. Then he rose to give it to me. But as he passed the picture it once more attracted his attention. He resumed his medieval saint-like ecstasy for a second, and then returned to his desk.
"I must be honest," he murmured as he filled in the figures of another cheque. Then he turned to me. "You must pardon me for giving you the purchase-money in two drafts; but my first cheque exhausted my account at one bank, and I had to draw upon my balance at another to supply the necessary residue."