“And now that you’ve seen it with your own eyes, what do you think you might ask me for it? I suggested something between two and three thousand—shall we say three? You’re the owner, you know.” Again the process of rib-digging. “Came out of that historic château of yours. My eye! you’re a holy terror when you begin to talk. You almost persuaded me it was real.”
“Tiens!” said Aristide to himself. “I don’t seem to have a château after all.”
“Certainly three thousand,” said he, with a grave face.
“That young man thinks he knows a lot, but he doesn’t,” said Mr. Smith.
“Ah!” said Aristide, with singular laconicism.
“Not a blooming thing,” continued his host. “But he’ll pay three thousand, which is the principal, isn’t it? He’s partner in the show, you know, Ralston, Wiggins, and Wix’s Brewery”—Aristide pricked up his ears—“and when his doddering old father dies he’ll be Lord Ranelagh and come into a million of money.”
“Has he seen the picture?” asked Aristide.
“Oh, yes. Regards it as a masterpiece. Didn’t Brauneberger tell you of the Lancret we planted on the American?” Mr. Smith rubbed hearty hands at the memory of the iniquity. “Same old game. Always easy. I have nothing to do with the bargaining or the sale. Just an old friend of the ruined French nobleman with the historic château and family treasures. He comes along and fixes the price. I told our friend Harry——”
“Good,” thought Aristide. “This is the same Honourable Harry, M.P., who is engaged to the ravishing Miss Christabel.”
“I told him,” said Mr. Smith, “that it might come to three or four thousand. He jibbed a bit—so when I wrote to you I said two or three. But you might try him with three to begin with.”