FRED M. WHITE

THE SAGE OF TYBURN

No. 5. — THE CHRONICLE OF
THE LIBELLED VELASQUEZ

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First published in The London Magazine, Vol. XV, No. 90, Jan 1906, pp 739-745

Collected in Paul the Sage, Ward Lock & Co, London, 1910

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Version Date: 2019-10-17
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TABLE OF CONTENTS



CHAPTER I. — THE LIBELLED VELASQUEZ

BEGGARSTAFF lay back in his chair, sipping his claret, and, on the whole, feeling well content with the way in which the world was moving. It was a Mouton Rothschild wine, comet vintage, and the whole room was deliriously perfumed with the bouquet of it. So to speak, it was a cameo amongst wines; and the three men round the table treated it with respect accordingly.

The Marquis of Glenlevett remarked with a sigh that he had very little left of the same bin. Also, he observed with pain that Miss Sadie Vandeker was spoiling her wine by eating a peach at the same time. The girl laughed as she reached for another from the dish in front of her.

"I guess it makes no difference," she said. "No American has the right education for these gilt-edged things in the way of liquors. I know I haven't."

The speaker glanced round the dining-room, her dark eyes resting lovingly upon the magnificent carved oak, the old silver and the pictures on the walls. Glenlevett House was a perfect museum of all that was artistic and beautiful. Circa James I., and later on, in the eighteenth century, there had been two Glenlevetts endowed with the artistic temperament, much to the advantage of the present Marquis, whose fine old house was a repository equal to that of any show mansion in the kingdom.

More or less directly, Beggarstaff was down on business connected with the strange disappearance of a set of intaglios, which disappearance having been satisfactorily accounted for, the Seer was now remaining for a day or two as the guest of his grateful host. The party was made up by Mr. Phineas W. Vandeker and his charming daughter.

Needless to say, Vandeker had made his pile out somewhere in poetic West, and was now looking for some historic estate in England where he might settle down, and his daughter, in accordance with the eternal fitness of things, marry into the Peerage. For the rest, Miss Vandeker was a beauty of the florid type—a Rubens rather than a Romney—but there was no denying her physical and intellectual charms. Her brilliant smile seemed to light up the room. She indicated all the artistic treasures with a dazzling wave of her arm. She turned as if for sympathy to Beggarstaff.

"This is what I envy the Marquis," she said. "I guess this is the kind of thing that money can't buy, though I believe my father offered the Marquis a kind of a fancy price for the whole thing just as it stands. Lord Glenlevett placed the house at our disposal in the spring; and for a whole delicious fortnight I wandered about the house, trying to imagine that it belonged to me, and that all those portraits in the gallery were my ancestors."

"I reckoned to take the house for three years," Vandeker said. "I sort of had it on trial; but I had to light out West quite unexpectedly, and the thing fell through. Maybe yet I shall see my way to take the house for three years."

Sadie's eyes lighted up at the prospect. She could not understand anybody being otherwise than happy in so perfect a place. All the same, there was a tinge of gloom on the lean, shaven face of the Marquis.

"We all have our troubles," he said, with the air of a man who admits the superior wisdom of a providence. "Nobody escapes them. For instance, I suppose you have all heard the misfortune I had with those two Velasquez portraits of mine?"

"What was that?" Beggarstaff asked. "I have some dim recollection of the matter. Weren't they burnt, or something of that kind? You sold them, I believe?"

"I gave them away," Glenlevett explained. "It was my housekeeper who first called my attention to the thing and, by the way, it was just after my friend Vandeker was staying here in the spring. The Velasquez had been moved to the Battle Bedroom. I may explain that the Battle Bedroom is carved oak with scenes from historic combats. It was the favourite room of Queen Elizabeth when she stayed here. Anyway, Miss Vandeker fell in love with the Velasquez, and they were removed to the Battle Bedroom, which I understand she occupied. But of course that has nothing to do with it. When my housekeeper asked me to look at the pictures I found that the paint had cracked in the most extraordinary way, and was hanging in flakes from the canvas, just like shreds of whitewash on a badly-dried ceiling. There was nothing for it but to make the best of a bad bargain. Of course, I called in one of those restoring experts, but he could do nothing whatever."

Beggarstaff sipped his wine with an air of profound sympathy. All the same, he was far more keenly interested than would have appeared. He glanced from the solemn features of Vandeker to the sparkling face of his daughter.

"It was a bold speculator who bought those pictures," he said. "I should like to know the name of that sportsman."

The Marquis waived the topic on one side.

"What does it matter?" he said. "Besides, I have not the least idea who the fellow was. He was apparently a dealer who came here to induce me to part with a Greuze, as he wanted to make up a pair for a customer. He took the Velasquez away with him, and there was an end of it."

"That is very strange," Beggarstaff said thoughtfully. "Is it possible that some pictures begin to perish after a certain time? For instance, everybody knows that Gainsborough's famous 'Blue Boy' is fading almost out of recognition. Painted canvas cannot last for ever; they must go some time, even as the 'One-Horse Shay' is said to have collapsed; but your lordship is not alone in your misfortunes. I happen to know that the same thing took place at Willmott Castle some little time ago; but those pictures were not Velasquez—they were Rembrandts. Do you think that the change of atmosphere had anything to do with it?"

"No, I don't," Glenlevett said. "For instance, there are another fine pair of portraits by Velasquez in the Tiring-Room leading out to the Battle Room; and I noticed yesterday that they were beginning to go in the same way. It is very annoying to see fifteen or twenty thousand pounds fading away under one's eyes like this. The best thing I can do is to sell the whole collection before any further damage is done. Only, unfortunately, that would not be quite an honourable proceeding. What?"

Beggarstaff allowed the subject to drop for a moment, and returned to it a little later on. He expressed a desire to see the pictures in question. That was, of course, if Miss Vandeker had no objection to his entering her dressing-room. The American beauty smiled a willing assent. She suggested that there need be no delay in examining those precious portraits.

The pictures stood in two recesses on each side of a marvellously carved fireplace. From a little distance they appeared to be absolutely intact; but a closer examination disclosed the fact that the paint was cracked across and across in a strange resemblance to the skin of a melon-rind. The paint seemed to have blistered also, as if it had been brought too close to a fire. The dark, romantic faces were almost obliterated, and in certain portions the paint was hanging in flakes. Beggarstaff touched the surface of the pictures with a tender, sympathetic hand.

"I see one is much worse than the other," he said. "It is a most extraordinary thing, and your lordship has my sincere sympathy."

There was nothing more to be said or done, and the little cortège returned solemnly to the billiard-room.

It was a little past eleven o'clock before Beggarstaff emerged from his bedroom. He had slipped off his dinner-jacket, and was wearing a rough coat instead. On his feet he had a pair of rubber-soled tennis-shoes. He felt his way along the corridor of the silent house, and paused at length by the door of the Tiring-Room, where he sat himself down with great patience to listen.

The house was silent as the grave now; there was not a light anywhere to be seen. An hour or so passed before Beggarstaff's eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, noticed the thin slice of light rimming the edge of the door like some silver embroidery. He could hear someone now moving about inside the room. Presently he noticed a soft, sobbing sound, much as a fire makes in an open grate when there is a strong draught. For some considerable time the strange sobbing noise went on. Then it ceased abruptly, and was heard no more. Fairly well satisfied with himself, Beggarstaff crept back to his room. Here he lighted a cigarette, and proceeded to think the matter out in his own thorough way.

"I think I have got it," he muttered. "Strange how often it is that one contrives to kill two birds with one stone! A close inspection of the family letter-bag for the next day or two ought to go a long way towards solving the mystery."

Beggarstaff was down betimes in the morning, but though he went carefully through the post-bag he seemed to find nothing that gave him the least satisfaction. On the third day, however, his patience was rewarded. He smiled as he turned over a business envelope, and carefully copied the embossed address on the flap into his pocket-book. There was nothing for it now but to invent an ingenious excuse for an immediate departure.

"I am afraid I shall have to go to town this morning," he explained as the party sat down to breakfast. "It is just possible that I may make it convenient to return in the course of the day. I shall be very disappointed if I lose my week-end here."

The Marquis was politely regretful; he sincerely hoped that Mr. Beggarstaff would see his way to return. There was a look of regret in the bright eyes of Sadie Vandeker.

"You must try your hardest," she said. "I don't often meet an Englishman who knows so much about art as you do, and I just fairly dote on it. You have taught me more the last two days about the Old Masters than I ever knew before."

"This is flattering," Beggarstaff murmured. "I shall have to take your wishes in the light of a command. You may rest assured that it will be no fault of mine if I fail to return here in time for dinner. If I do get back, I propose to give you a lesson in art which will rather astonish you."

Sadie Vandeker laughed at the grave accent which Beggarstaff had assumed. She waved him a cordial farewell as the dog-cart disappeared down the drive. A little time later Beggarstaff was in high spirits as he drove along. He was on the track of an intrigue after his own heart—one of those delicate, ingenious problems, the solution of which he delighted in. The setting was romantic, too, and, like a true artist, Beggarstaff revelled in its atmosphere.

Once arrived at Paddington, he called a cab, and drove off promptly in the direction of the British Museum. Arrived there, he sent in his card, with a request that the Curator of the Prints Department would grant hint the favour of a short interview.

Apparently the interview was favourable, for Beggarstaff smiled to himself as he directed his cab to 24, Little Bond Street. The cab paused at length before an unpretentious establishment, in the window of which was one heavily framed picture, and over the door the legend "REUBENS," in fat Gothic letters.


CHAPTER II. — THE HAND OF THE SERVANT

BEGGARSTAFF was pleased to find that Reubens was no nom de plume, but actually the name of the tenant of the shop. The place was dingy enough, and bore little appearance of any briskness in the way of trade; but then, as Beggarstaff remembered, there was a considerable slump in the picture industry, save in the matter of Old Masters and modern millionaires.

A jaunty clerk came forward, and asked Beggarstaff's business. He froze the man with a look, and intimated that he had come to see Mr. Reubens on a matter of importance shich could not be conveyed through the medium of a subordinate. Simon Pure himself—who beyond all question had been listening to the foregoing conversation—appeared, with a softness and noiselessness which were absolutely wonderful in a man of his enormous bulk.

He stood there with the dingy light falling on his face. His features were veritable bags and rolls of fat; his smile was effusive and carneying. It would have been a poor judge of character who had not disliked this man intensely and heartily on the spot. All the same, as Beggarstaff did not fail to notice, he was exceedingly well-dressed, and there was a pleasing absence of jewellery about him. It was more the shifty cunning of his small eyes than anything else that set Beggarstaff on his guard.

"You are Mr. Reubens himself?" he asked.

"I am that, sir!" the dealer replied. There was no mistaking his German nationality directly he opened his mouth. "Is there anything that I can do for you?"

Beggarstaff looked vaguely about him. He wanted to convey the impression of being a rich man who was looking for some easy means of disposing of his wealth without undue exertion.

"Pictures," he said, with a large wave of his hand. "You see, I am only in England for a short time, and I have other establishments to visit. Fact is, I am an American. I'm just building myself a little place on Fifth Avenue, New York, that will cost a couple of million dollars or so; and I want some of your class of wallpaper to hang around. If you can fix me up, I have got half a million or so to play with."

Reubens literally fell at Beggarstaff's feet and called him blessed. Here was the class of customer which every right-minded dealer prays for, and but few encounter more than once in a lifetime. Visions of large cheques for Old Masters manufactured on the premises rose before Herr Reubens's delighted eyes. An ecstatic perspiration bespangled his domelike forehead.

"This way, if you please, sir. This way," he gurgled.

He spoke as if he were pointing the road to some exclusive heaven of his own to which only customers of Beggarstaff's type were admitted. A long, well-lighted room on the second floor was practically filled with pictures, which Beggarstaff surveyed coldly.

"I don't want anything modern," he said. "We can get modern work by the cartload. Murillo, Michael Angelo: those are the sort of canned goods I am after. If you haven't got any on show, I'll just trot along to Bond Street, and give some of the merchants there a chance. Say, have you got what I want?"

"Oh, my very good sir—my very good sir—we have everything! There is nothing we cannot show you, This way, if you please!"

Once more Beggarstaff followed to a room on the top floor, absolutely filled with treacle-coloured studies in various stages of decay and neglect. Everything seemed to be arranged with an eye to artistic effect—that is, from the point of view of the customer who must be impressed with the fact that he is getting amazing value for his money. Reubens smiled as he indicated the works of the dead and gone great.

"They are here, positively all here," he whispered, as one speaks in the presence of the dead. "All the mighty masters are present around you. Here is a Murillo, for five thousand pounds. Positively, I am losing money on that, but then it is necessary to have a little cash at times. Or what do you say to this Raphael?"

Very gravely Beggarstaff, glass in eye, proceeded down a row of dingy daubs much as a general inspects a regiment; then he turned in his coolest possible way to the perspiring Reubens.

"How much for the family party?" he asked crisply.

"Say, one hundred thousand pounds!" the staggered Reubens replied. "One hundred thousand pounds for a fine picture-gallery complete. Some day it will be worth double the money."

"I'll give you five-and-twenty pounds for the lot," Beggarstaff said sweetly, "and I'll throw back those masterpieces so long as you deliver the frames intact. My good man, you appear to think that you are dealing with a fool; and you might just as well confess at once that there is not a yard of canvas here which hasn't been faked up by some drunken derelict of an artist at so much a foot. I am a busy man, and you are simply wasting my time. If you have anything really worth showing me, trot it out."

"Ah, my dear sir, you are a man after my own heart!" Reubens cried, quite unabashed. "I see you are not to be deceived. I have a few—just a very few-pictures which I only show to those who are capable of appreciating the real Art. Will you come this way?"

It was a room at the top of the house, quite a small room, and Beggarstaff could see that the walls were lined with iron, and that the door was like unto the door of a safe. Here on the floor lay some score or so of pictures mounted on stretchers and devoid of frames. Reubens turned eagerly to his companion.

"Now, what might your particular vanity be?" he said. "Let us take them as they come. Here is a Rembrandt, 'Portrait of a Burgomaster's Wife.' No rubbish there, eh? There is breadth, there is atmosphere."

Reubens had entirely lost his servile manner. He spoke now as one in the inner brotherhood to another; and Beggarstaff forgot his purpose for the moment in his admiration of the picture, One after the other was turned to the light. There was no boasting or chicanery here; the pictures were alive, breathing genuine.

"A grand lot," Beggarstaff said. "I should like to take them all, but you have not yet shown me the Velasquez."

Reubens started, and looked a little uneasily at Beggarstaff. Me wiped his domelike forehead in an agitated way.

"I do not understand," he stammered. "Pardon me, sir, but I said nothing about a Velasquez. They so seldom come in the way of a comparatively poor man like myself."

Beggarstaff stood abstractedly tracing the outline of a cherub's nose with his forefinger.

"There are occasions," he murmured, "when dealers are glad to get rid of a picture. You see, sometimes it becomes necessary for one of your aristocrats to raise a little ready money. How easier than by selling a family heirloom? He comes to see you, for instance. You give him a few thousand pounds, and an ingeniously faked copy of that picture, and the thing is done. Unfortunately, cases have been known when the heir to the property has created unpleasantness, and the picture has had to be restored. Equally unfortunately the process of restoration is not mutual, and the poor dealer drops his dollars. Is that so?"

Reubens's little eyes lighted up angrily.

"Ah, yes!" he exclaimed. "I have been in that cart myself. Then, my dear sir, it behoves me to get rid of that picture as soon as possible. A rich American like you comes along, he pays for the treasure in cash. I do not even know his name, I am sorry that the picture cannot be traced. These things do not get in the papers; there is seldom any scandal. But, look you, I get not so good a price when I have to dispose of a work of art in that fashion!"

"Quite so," Beggarstaff said drily. "That is exactly what I am getting at. I am a rich American, quite ready to pay in cash. Moreover, I lack the inquisitiveness of my race. To be quite plain, my good Reubens, have you got any small deer of that kind on your hands at present?"

Reubens hesitated. It seemed to Beggarstaff that he was eyeing him suspiciously; but the latter was still abstractedly at work on the tip-tilted nose of the cherub.

"You were asking just now about a Velasquez," Reubens whispered, speaking as if his throat were full of crumbs. "I had forgotten that I had two of them, which I will sell to you for three thousand guineas a piece. They come from a nobleman in the North of England, who was compelled to part with them to pay his racing debts. I will not disguise from you, my dear sir, that I bought those pictures cheap. The heir to the property is not on good terms with his uncle; as if he found out—Ah, you understand!"

Reubens turned away, and produced from a recess a couple of pictures, which he proceeded to unroll and lay out upon the floor, where the filtered light of the sun might shine upon them. He handled them with loving care; he pointed out their manifold beauties, like the artist and connoisseur that he undoubtedly was.

"Three thousand guineas!" he said, with a passionate regret. "Ah, if I could only afford to keep them! It is like parting with my heart's blood when I sell a picture of this class. But then they are dangerous to keep; and I am a poor man, who makes his money hard. Three thousand guineas, late the property of a nobleman in the North of England who had his debts of honour to pay! Shall we say it is a deal? Never was such a bargain."

"You are quite right there!" Beggarstaff said crisply. He had changed his tone altogether. He grasped the astonished Reubens by his little fat ear, and led him from the room. Then he banged the door and placed the key in his pocket. "You rascal! I know where these pictures come from. What am I going to do? I am going to take you round to the office of Messrs. Ely & Ely, in Lewis Place, and settle matters there. If you are wise, you will come quietly."


CHAPTER III. — THE UPPER HAND

MISS SADIE VANDEKER expressed her pleasure at seeing Beggarstaff back in time for dinner. He murmured his gratification in suitable language. He hoped, he said, to be able to add considerably to Miss Vandeker's knowledge of art after the coffee. Also, he considerably puzzled his host by a request that the damaged Velasquez in the Tiring-Room should be very carefully removed from their frames and laid on the billiard-table. This request he did not make in the hearing of the American visitors, but in the private ear of Glenlevett alone. All the same, Miss Vandeker glanced uneasily from Beggarstaff to her father as she noticed the pictures lying on the billiard-table after dinner.

"What are you going to do?" she laughed. "Restore those faces to their pristine beauty?"

"Well, I am about to make an experiment," Beggarstaff confessed. "But, first of all, I should like to tell you a little story. I was in New York on business about two years ago, on behalf of an artist friend of mine; and I heard a strange incident that happened in connexion with the picture department of the National Museum. It seems that the National Museum possesses, or did possess, a valuable collection of Da Vincis. One morning it was discovered that three of these pictures had practically perished in the night. They had all cracked and blistered and the pigment had flaked off, just for all the world as if they had been scorched in a fire. It was thought at the time that the overheating of a stove had caused the mischief. I dare say you all notice how frequently a new and singular type of accident repeats itself.

"At any rate, practically the same thing happened with a pair of very fine Albrecht Dürers in the Boston Museum a few days later. The same explanation was given; and the pictures were disposed of for a nominal sum to some speculative dealer who had an idea that he might restore them. The whole thing might have passed off without further notice if my friend's suspicions had not been aroused by the knowledge that the same dealer had bought the damaged pictures in each instance. New York and Boston are some way apart, as you know, so that the incident was significant. All the same, it was found impossible to trace the dealer; and there the matter would have ended if my friend had not discovered those four masterpieces in the possession of a rich land speculator who lives in Melbourne. I hope that I am not boring you, Miss Vandeker."

The girl was listening with every appearance of interest, only her face was a little pale, and she murmured something about the heat. Vandeker himself was smoking a green cigar, with a hand not so steady as it might have been. There was gloom in his eyes.

"There is no mistake about it," Beggarstaff went on; "those are the self-same pictures, as my friend is in a position to testify. But they are no longer blistered and cracked. In fact, they are brilliant and fresh as the day they crossed the Atlantic. Now, it struck me when I heard Lord Glenlevett tell the story of his damaged Velasquez last night, that he had been the victim of the same ingenious fraud perpetrated in America. You see, as the Marquis is so frequently away from home, it would have been an easy matter for the swindler, in the disguise of a workman, to get into the house, and smear the pictures over with a mixture of sulphuric acid and elastic gum-arabic medium, which gives to the face of the painting the blistered appearance and the tattered shreds of paint which is almost an exact copy of a surface which has been damaged by fire. If the paint is very hard, a painter's flare-lamp is used to hasten the process, Miss Vandeker. Ninety-nine experts out of a hundred would declare at once that the picture was quite beyond all hope of restoration. Or the thing could be done in a different manner entirely, as it indeed was managed early in the spring in the North of England.

"Lord Glenlevett was speaking last night of a friend of his who suffered in the same way. He had arranged to let his house to an invalid American, who, being in very indifferent health, stipulated that he should try the house for a fortnight before finally making up his mind. As Miss Vandeker will readily guess, the house did not suit the invalid; and at the end of a week or two he moved on elsewhere. It was shortly after this that the Rembrandts proved to have perished; and within a few weeks a dealer came along, with the excuse that he wanted to purchase a small Romney to make up a pair. As a matter of fact, he purchased the damaged Rembrandts instead, precisely in the same way as the dealer served Lord Glenlevett here."

"Did you say the same dealer?"

Miss Vandeker asked with a curious catch in her voice.

"We shall come to that presently," Beggarstaff replied drily. "Knowing what I know, my suspicions were aroused last night; and on my arrival in town this morning I paid a visit to the expert who is a presiding authority in the Prints Department of the British Museum. As I quite expected, he knew all about the dodge in question, and explained to me exactly how it is done, I propose to show you my powers as a picture-restorer."

So saying, Beggarstaff crossed the room and rang the bell. A servant came in presently, bearing a couple of hot flat-irons on a tray. From one of his pockets Beggarstaff produced a small bottle of amber-coloured liquid and a piece of cotton-wool, with which implements he treated the face of one of the damaged Velasquez lying on the table. Then on the face of the paint he laid a large sheet of greasy tracing paper, finally applying the iron over the whole surface. The paper came away easily, and Beggarstaff turned with a flourish to his host.

"Behold a miracle!" he said "That which five minutes ago was a mere mass of brown blisters and hanging shreds of paint is once more the joy of nations. Tell me, Lord Glenlevett, do you see the slightest difference between the picture now and the picture as it was six months ago? While you are trying to find out I will proceed to treat the other picture in the same way. Come, Miss Vandeker, I think you will have to admit that I have done my best for the sake of your art education."

"Well, I should say!" the girl gasped. "This is the most amazing thing! Did you ever see anything like it, poppa?"

Vandeker had turned away to the side-table in the mullioned window, and appeared to be deeply interested in the manufacture of brandy-and-soda. Beggarstaff could see that he had slopped some half-pint of the pungent liquor on the floor.

"This is marvellous!" the Marquis cried. "I cannot see the slightest flaw in the picture. It must take an expert hand to produce such a wonderful result."

"Not at all," Beggarstaff said. "As a matter of fact, there was nothing the matter with the picture at all. It is only the acid and the elastic medium working together that produced those cracked blots on the face of the paint. A little spirit easily removes them, and a hot iron finishes the work. The beauty of this swindle is the extreme simplicity."

Sadie Vandeker sidled up to Beggarstaff and laid her fingers on the back of his hand. He could feel the flesh burning like a fever. He noticed how quickly the girl was breathing.

"Say," she almost whispered, "have you quite finished? Are there to be any revelations or exposures, or something nice and neat and dramatic in that way?"

"That all depends," Beggarstaff said gravely. "As a matter of fact, I have not quite finished with the revelations. I have here two rolls of canvas which I am sure will be exceedingly interesting to Lord Glenlevett. I will lay them on the table and ask him if he has seen them before."

The canvas cylinders were spread out on the table, and the Marquis gave a sharp cry of delight.

"My lost Velasquez!" he exclaimed. "The very pair that rascal cheated me out of! Why, my dear sir, they are absolutely none the worse for their adventure! You are a clever fellow, Beggarstaff, but your ingenuity in this matter fairly staggers me. How on earth did you manage to find the name of the man who played that sorry trick upon me? If I decide to prosecute him—"

A little gasping cry came from the girl by Beggarstaff's side. She laid her hand on his arm again, as if mutely asking for protection.

"Take me into the hall, or I guess I'll faint," she whispered. "Ah, that is better. I dare say you noticed it, but I am mightily mistaken if the belted Earl tumbled to it after all. It's a bit of a shame, too, to play it low down on a real, gilt-edged white man like that. I guess it is just in your power to play pitch-and-toss with poppa and myself, but I hope there won't be a mighty fine exposure after all these revelations."

Beggarstaff's duty was plain before him, but he hesitated with those pleading eyes turned upon him.

"I don't think so," he said slowly. "I don't see the slightest use. In cases of this kind a vulgar exposure destroys the delicate comedy, don't you think? Besides, seeing that the Celtic sails for New York on Monday—"

"I understand," Sadie said gently.


THE END