"I am telling you the truth, Mr.Faust," he said."In no gallery in Europe, no, not even in the Prado, is there such another Velasquez.This is what you are doing, Mr.Faust, you are robbing Spain.You are robbing her of something worth more to her than Cuba.And I tell you, so soon as it is known that this Velasquez is going to your home in Pittsburgh, every Spaniard will hate you and every art-collector will hate you, too.For it is the most wonderful art treasure in Europe.And what a bargain, Mr.Faust!
What a bargain!"
To make sure that the reporter was within hearing, Mr.Faust glanced in the direction of Philip and, seeing that he had heard, frowned importantly.That the reporter might hear still more, he also raised his voice.
"Nothing can be called a bargain, Baron," he said, "that costs three hundred thousand dollars!"Again he could not resist glancing toward Philip, and so eagerly that Philip deemed it would be only polite to look interested.So he obligingly assumed a startled look, with which he endeavored to mingle simulations of surprise, awe, and envy.
The next instant an expression of real surprise overspread his features.
Mr.Faust continued."If you will come upstairs," he said to the picture-dealer, "I will give you your check; and then I should like to drive to your apartments and take a farewell look at the picture.""I am sorry," the Baron said, "but I have had it moved to my art gallery to be packed.""Then let's go to the gallery," urged the patron of art."We've just time before lunch." He rose to his feet, and on the instant the soul of the picture-dealer was filled with alarm.
In actual words he said: "The picture is already boxed and in its lead coffin.No doubt by now it is on its way to Liverpool.I am sorry." But his thoughts, as Philip easily read them, were:
"Fancy my letting this vulgar fool into the Tate Street workshop!
Even HE would know that old masters are not found in a half-finished state on Chelsea-made frames and canvases.Fancy my letting him see those two half-completed Van Dycks, the new Hals, the half-dozen Corots.He would even see his own copy of Velasquez next to the one exactly like it--the one MacMillan finished yesterday and that I am sending to Oporto, where next year, in a convent, we shall 'discover' it."Philip's surprise gave way to intense amusement.In his delight at the situation upon which he had stumbled, he laughed aloud.
The two men, who had risen, surprised at the spectacle of a young man laughing at nothing, turned and stared.Philip also rose.
"Pardon me," he said to Faust, "but you spoke so loud I couldn't help overhearing.I think we've met before, when I was a reporter on the Republic."The Pittsburgh millionaire made a pretense, of annoyance.
"Really!" he protested irritably, "you reporters butt in everywhere.No public man is safe.Is there no place we can go where you fellows won't annoy us?""You can go to the devil for all I care," said Philip, "or even to Pittsburgh!"He saw the waiter bearing down upon him with the imitation cocktail, and moved to meet it.The millionaire, fearing the reporter would escape him, hastily changed his tone.He spoke with effective resignation.
"However, since you've learned so much," he said, "I'll tell you the whole of it.I don't want the fact garbled, for it is of international importance.Do you know what a Velasquez is?""Do you?" asked Philip.
The millionaire smiled tolerantly.
"I think I do," he said."And to prove it, I shall tell you something that will be news to you.I have just bought a Velasquez that I am going to place in my art museum.It is worth three hundred thousand dollars."Philip accepted the cocktail the waiter presented.It was quite as bad as he had expected.
"Now, I shall tell you something," he said, "that will be news to you.You are not buying a Velasquez.It is no more a Velasquez than this hair oil is a real cocktail.It is a bad copy, worth a few dollars.""How dare you!" shouted Faust."Are you mad?"The face of the German turned crimson with rage.
"Who is this insolent one?" he sputtered.
"I will make you a sporting proposition," said Philip."You can take it, or leave it.You two will get into a taxi.You will drive to this man's studio in Tate Street.You will find your Velasquez is there and not on its way to Liverpool.And you will find one exactly like it, and a dozen other 'old masters'
half-finished.I'll bet you a hundred pounds I'm right! And I'll bet this man a hundred pounds that he DOESN'T DARE TAKE YOU TOHIS STUDIO!"
"Indeed, I will not," roared the German."It would be to insult myself.""It would be an easy way to earn a hundred pounds, too," said Philip.
"How dare you insult the Baron?" demanded Faust."What makes you think--""I don't think, I know!" said Philip."For the price of a taxi-cab fare to Tate Street, you win a hundred pounds.""We will all three go at once," cried the German."My car is outside.Wait here.I will have it brought to the door?"Faust protested indignantly.
"Do not disturb yourself, Baron," he said; "just because a fresh reporter--"But already the German had reached the hall.Nor did he stop there.They saw him, without his hat, rush into Piccadilly, spring into a taxi, and shout excitedly to the driver.The next moment he had disappeared.
"That's the last you'll see of him," said Philip.
"His actions are certainly peculiar," gasped the millionaire."He did not wait for us.He didn't even wait for his hat! I think, after all, I had better go to Tate Street.""Do so," said Philip, "and save yourself three hundred thousand dollars, and from the laughter of two continents.You'll find me here at lunch.If I'm wrong, I'll pay you a hundred pounds.""You should come with me," said Faust."It is only fair to yourself.""I'll take your word for what you find in the studio," said Philip."I cannot go.This is my busy day."Without further words, the millionaire collected his hat and stick, and, in his turn, entered a taxi-cab and disappeared.
Philip returned to the Louis Quatorze chair and lit a cigarette.
