Part 10

M. Duponnet and Mr. Thornton took the picture to the other side of the shop and conferred together. So low were their voices that neither Uncle Si nor June could hear a word of what passed between them. Times and again they held the canvas to the light. They laid it on a tallboys, and pored over it; they borrowed the microscope of one another and made great show of using it; and then finally Mr. Thornton crossed the floor and said to Uncle Si, who was handling a piece of Waterford glass with the most pensive unconcern: “What’s your price, Mr. Gedge?”

“Heh?” said the old man, as if emerging from a beautiful dream. “Price? You had better name one.”

Excitement at this point seemed to cause June’s heart to stop beating.

“The trouble is,” said Mr. Thornton, “our friend, M. Duponnet, is not quite convinced that it is a Van Roon.”

“But there’s the signature.”

“It seems to have been touched up a bit.”

“Not by me,” said S. Gedge Antiques, austerely.

“We don’t think that for a moment,” said Mr. Thornton, in a voice of honey. “But the signature is by no means so clear as it might be, and in the absence of a pedigree M. Duponnet does not feel justified in paying a big price.”

There was a pause while the old man indulged in a dramatic change of spectacles. And then he said rather sourly, in a tone that M. Duponnet could not fail to hear: “Pedigree or no pedigree, I shall have no difficulty in selling it. You know as well as I do, Mr. Thornton, that American buyers are in the market.”

“Quite so, Mr. Gedge,” said Mr. Thornton suavely. And then while Uncle Si glared at both gentlemen as if they had been caught with their hands in his pocket, they conferred again together. This time it was M. Duponnet who ended their discussion by saying: “Meester Gedge, name your figure!”

“Figure?” said Uncle Si dreamily; and then in his odd way he scratched his scrub of whisker with a thumbnail and rubbed a forefinger down his long and foxlike nose.

“Your price, Meester Gedge?”

“Mussewer!” said the old man solemnly, “I couldn’t take less than five thousand pounds, I couldn’t really.”

June held her breath. For some little time past she had been convinced that the picture was valuable, but she was hardly prepared for this fabulous sum.

M. Duponnet shook his head. “Meester Gedge, if only we had its ’istory!”

“If we had its history, Mussewer, I should want at least twice the money. Even as it is I am taking a big chance. You know that as well as I do.”

This seemed to be true. At all events, M. Duponnet and Mr. Thornton again talked earnestly together. Once more they fingered that rather dilapidated canvas. Head to head they bent over it yet again; and then suddenly M. Duponnet looked up and came abruptly across to the old man.

“Meester Gedge,” he said, “I can’t go beyond four t’ousand pounds. That is my limit!”

“Five, Mussewer Duponny, that is mine,” said Uncle Si, with a dark smile.

It was a jejune thing for a French gentleman to do, but at this point M. Duponnet really and truly gave his shoulders a shrug, and advanced three paces towards the shop door. Uncle Si did not stir a muscle. And then M. Duponnet faced about and said: “Guineas, Meester Gedge, I’ll give four t’ousand guineas, and that’s my last word.”

Uncle Si having no pretensions to be considered a French gentleman, did not hesitate to give his own shoulders a shrug. It was his turn then to confer with the discreet and knowledgeable Mr. Thornton, who it was clear was acting the difficult part of a go-between.

June heard that gentleman say in an audible whisper: “A fair price, Mr. Gedge, for the thing as it stands. It hasn’t a pedigree, and to me that signature looks a bit doubtful. In the market it may fetch more or it may fetch less, but at the same time four thousand guineas is a fine insurance.”

Finished dissembler as Uncle Si was, even he did not seek to deny the truth of this. There could be no gainsaying that four thousand guineas _was_ a fine insurance. True, if the picture proved to be a veritable Van Roon it might fetch many times that sum. In that shrewd mind, no bigger miracle was needed for the thing to turn out a _chef d’œuvre_ than that it should prove to be worth the sum offered by M. Duponnet. Either contingency seemed too good to be true. Besides, S. Gedge Antiques belonged to a conservative school, among whose articles of faith was a certain trite proverb about a bird in the hand.

It went to the old man’s heart to accept four thousand guineas for a work that might be worth so very much more. June could hear him breathing heavily. In her tense ear that sound dominated even the furious beating of her own heart. A kind of dizziness came over her, as only too surely she understood that the wicked old man was giving in. Before her very eyes he was going to surrender her own private property for a fabulous sum.

“Four t’ousand guineas, Meester Gedge,” said M. Duponnet, with quite an air of nonchalance. But he knew well enough that the old man was about to “fall.”

“It’s giving it away, Mussewer,” whined Uncle Si. “It’s giving it away.”

“Zat I don’t t’ink, Meester Gedge,” said the French gentleman, quietly unbuttoning his coat and taking a fountain pen and a cheque book from an inner pocket. “It’s a risque--a big risque. It may not be Van Roon at all--and zen where are we?”

“You know as well as I do that it’s a Van Roon,” Uncle Si verged almost upon tears.

“Very well, Meester Gedge, if you prefer ze big chance.” And cheque book in hand the French gentleman paused.

June was torn. And she could tell by the strange whine in the rasping voice that the Old Crocodile was also torn.

At this moment of crisis, Mr. Thornton interposed with masterful effect. “In my humble opinion,” he said, “it’s a very fair offer for the thing as it stands.”

“You are thinking of your ten per cent. commission, my boy,” said S. Gedge Antiques with a gleam of malice.

“Well, Meester Gedge,” said M. Duponnet, “take it or leave it.” And the French gentleman began to fold up his cheque book.

With a groan to rend a heart of stone, S. Gedge Antiques brought himself suddenly to accept the offer. Half suffocated by excitement, June watched M. Duponnet cross to the desk and proceed to write out a cheque for four thousand guineas. And as she did so her heart sank. She was quite sure that she was looking upon the picture for the last time.

In jumping to this conclusion, however, she had not made full allowance for the business capacity of Uncle Si. When M. Duponnet had filled in the cheque and handed it to him, the Old Crocodile scrutinised it very carefully indeed, and then he said: “Thank you, Mussewer Duponny. The bank closes at three. But to-morrow morning I’ll take this round myself as soon as it opens. And if the manager says it’s all right, you can have the picture whenever you like.”

“_Bien!_” The Frenchman bowed politely. “Meanwhile, take good care of the picture. There are many thieves about.” M. Duponnet laughed. “Mind you lock it up in a safe place.”

“You can trust Mr. Gedge to do that, I think,” said Louis Quinze-legs dryly.

“I hope so, I’m sure,” said the old man with a frosty smile.

“_Soit!_” M. Duponnet smiled too. “I’ll call for it myself to-morrow morning at twelve.”

“Thank you, Mussewer!”

S. Gedge Antiques gave his visitors a bow as they went up to the shop door, and ushered them ceremoniously into the not particularly inviting air of New Cross Street.

XXVII

JUST at first June was unable to realise that M. Duponnet had not taken the picture away with him. The blood seemed to drum against her brain while she watched Uncle Si turn over the cheque in his long talon fingers and then transfer it to a leather case, which he returned to his breast pocket with a deep sigh. Afterwards he took up the picture from the table on which he had set it down and then June grasped the fact that the treasure was still there.

The face which bent over it now was not that of a happy man. It was a complex of emotions, deep and stern. The price was huge for a thing that had cost him nothing, but--and there it was that the shoe pinched!--if it should prove to be a real Van Roon, he might be parting with it for a song.

June could read his thoughts like an open book. He wanted to eat his cake and have it too. She would have been inclined to pity him had her hatred and her scorn been less. In his cunning and his greed he was a tragic figure, with a thing of incomparable beauty in his hand whose sole effect was to give him the look of an evil bird of prey. Utter rascal as she knew him to be now, she shivered to think how easy it would be for herself to grow just like him. Her very soul was fixed upon the recovery of this wonderful thing which, in the first place, she had obtained by a trick. And did she covet it for its beauty? Or was it for the reason which at this moment made Uncle Si a creature so ill to look upon? To such questions there could only be one answer.

For the time being, however, these things were merged in the speculation far more momentous: What will the Old Crocodile do now? She was feeling so uncomfortable in her narrow hiding place, which prevented all movement, and almost forbade her to breathe, that she hoped devoutly the old wretch would lose no time in putting back the treasure.

This, alas, was not to be. The picture was still in the hand of Uncle Si, who still pored over it like a moulting vulture, when a luxurious motor glided up to the shop door. Almost at once the shop was invaded by two persons, who in the sight of June had a look of notable importance.

The first of these, whom June immediately recognised, was the tall, fashionable girl whose visit had caused her such heart-burning the week before. She was now accompanied by a gentleman who beyond a doubt was her distinguished father.

“Good morning, Mr. Gedge!” It was twenty past three by the afternoon, but June was ready to take a Bible oath that Miss Blue Blood said “good morning.” “I’ve persuaded my father to come and look at this amazing vase.” And with her _en-tout-cas_ Miss Blue Blood pointed straight at the Hoodoo.

Feeling herself to be a rat caught neatly in a trap, June at once crouched lower. The Hoodoo being fully six feet tall and her own stoop considerable, she was able to take comfort from the fact that just then no part of her own head was showing. But how long was she likely to remain invisible? That was a question for the gods. And it was further complicated by the knowledge that the Hoodoo’s mouth was open, and that the point of Miss Blue Blood’s green umbrella might easily find a way through.

A-shiver with fear June tried to subdue her wild heart, while Miss Babraham, her father, Sir Arthur, and S. Gedge Antiques gathered round the Hoodoo. She hardly dared to breathe. The least sound would betray her. And in any case, one of the three had merely to stand on an adjacent coffin stool and peer over the top for the murder to be out.

The tragedy which June so clearly foresaw was not permitted to take place at once. Plainly the fates were inclined to toy with their victim for a while. Miss Blue Blood’s laugh--how rich and deep it was!--rang in her ears and made them burn as she gave the Hoodoo a prod and cried out in her gay Miss-Banks-like manner, “Papa, I ask you, did you ever see anything quite like it?”

“By George, no!” laughed that connoisseur.

“It’s such a glorious monster,” said his enthusiastic daughter standing on tiptoe, “that one can’t even see over the top.”

“Puts one in mind,” said Sir Arthur, “of the Arabian Nights and the Cave of the Forty Robbers.”

“The long gallery at Homefield is the very place for it!”

“I wonder!” The connoisseur tapped the Hoodoo with his walking stick and turned to S. Gedge Antiques. “Do you happen to know where it came from?” he asked.

“From a Polynesian temple in the South Sea Islands, I believe, sir,” said Uncle Si, glibly.

“What do you want for it?” And Sir Arthur tapped the Hoodoo again.

“I’ll take thirty pounds, sir.” It was the voice of a man bringing himself to part with a valuable tooth. “Sixty was the sum I paid for it some years ago. But it isn’t everybody’s fancy, and it swallows a small place.”

Sir Arthur observed with pleasant humour that such a monstrosity ought to be taken over by the nation. S. Gedge Antiques, with a humour that strove to be equally pleasant, concurred.

At this point, to June’s mortal terror, Miss Babraham made a second attempt to look over the top.

“Stand on this coffin stool, Miss,” said S. Gedge Antiques, politely producing that article from the collection of bric-à-brac around the Hoodoo.

June’s heart stood still. The game was up. Sickly she closed her eyes. But Providence had one last card to play.

“Thank you so much,” said Miss Babraham. “But it won’t bear my weight, I’m afraid. No, I don’t think I’ll risk it. There’s really nothing to see inside.”

Uncle Si agreed that there was really nothing to see inside; and June breathed again.

“Thirty pounds isn’t much, papa, for such a glorious monstrosity.” Miss Blue Blood had evidently set her heart on it.

Sir Arthur, however, expressed a fear that a thing of that size, that hue, that contour would kill every object in the Long Gallery. Great argument ensued. And then to June’s relief, Miss Babraham, her father, Sir Arthur and S. Gedge Antiques, arguing still, moved away from the Hoodoo.

The upshot was that Sir Arthur, overborne at last by the force of his daughter’s reasoning, agreed to buy the monster, for what in the opinion of the seller, was a ridiculously inadequate sum. It was to be carefully packed in a crate, and sent down to Homefield near Byfleet, Surrey. So much for the Hoodoo. And then the eye of a famous connoisseur lit on the picture that the old dealer had laid on the gate-legged table.

“What have we here?” said Sir Arthur, fixing his eyeglass.

Uncle Si became a sphinx. The connoisseur took the picture in his hand, and while he examined it with grave curiosity he too became a sphinx. So tense grew the silence to June’s ear that again she was troubled by the loud beating of her heart.

At last the silence was broken by the light and charming note of Miss Babraham. “Why, surely,” she said, “that is the funny old picture I saw when I was here the other day.”

“We have cleaned it up a bit since then, madam,” said Uncle Si in a voice so toneless that June could only marvel at the perfect self-command of this arch dissembler.

Sir Arthur, it was clear, was tremendously interested. He turned the picture over and over, and used the microscope very much as M. Duponnet had done. Finally he said in a voice nearly as toneless as that of Uncle Si himself. “What do you ask for this, Mr. Gedge?”

“Not for sale, sir,” was the decisive answer.

The nod of Sir Arthur implied that it was the answer he expected. “Looks to me a fine example.” A true amateur, he could not repress a little sigh of pleasure. There was no concealing the fact that he was intrigued.

“Van Roon at his best, sir,” said S. Gedge Antiques.

“Ye-es,” said the connoisseur--in the tone of the connoisseur. “One would be rather inclined to say so. If the question is not impertinent,”--Sir Arthur fixed a steady eye upon the face of deep cunning which confronted his--“may I ask where it came from?”

The old man was prepared for the question. His answer was pat. “I can’t tell you that, sir,” he said, in a tone of mystery.

Again Sir Arthur nodded. That, too, was the answer he had expected. In the pause which followed Sir Arthur returned to a loving re-examination of the picture; and then said S. Gedge Antiques in a voice gravely and quietly confidential: “Strictly between ourselves, sir, I may say that I have just turned down an offer of five thousand guineas.”

“Oh--indeed!”

It was now the turn of the Old Crocodile to gaze into the impassive countenance of the famous connoisseur.

XXVIII

“FIVE thousand guineas, sir, I have just refused,” said Uncle Si, “for this little thing, as sure as God’s in the sky.”

So shocked was June by this adding of blasphemy to his other crimes, that she shivered audibly. Miss Babraham cocked up her head at the sound. “You’ve a cat somewhere, haven’t you?” she said, looking around the shop.

“No, madam,” said Uncle Si shortly. So like a woman to butt in at such a moment with such a remark!

“In my humble opinion,” said Sir Arthur, gazing solemnly at the picture, “this is a finer example of Van Roon than the one--and the only one!--we have in the National Gallery.”

“There, sir, I am with you,” said S. Gedge Antiques with unction.

“One would like to know its history.”

The old man became a sphinx once more. “I can only tell you, sir, I didn’t buy it as a Van Roon,” he said cautiously.

“Really!” Sir Arthur grew more intrigued than ever. “Well, Mr. Gedge, whatever you bought it as, I think there can be no doubt that you’ve made a lucky purchase.”

“I am wondering, sir,” said S. Gedge Antiques, “whether the National Gallery would care to acquire this fine example?” It was a sudden inspiration, but those measured tones and calculating eyes gave no indication of the fact.

Sir Arthur Babraham, in his own capacity of a National Gallery trustee, began sensibly to moderate his transports. “More unlikely things, Mr. Gedge,” at last he brought himself reluctantly to say. “Van Roons are very scarce, and if this one is all that he appears to be at a first glance, it will be a pity to let him leave the country.”

Piously, S. Gedge Antiques thought so, too.

Sir Arthur turned to the picture again. Like M. Duponnet he seemed to have difficulty in keeping his expert gaze off that fascinating canvas.

“Reminds one,” he said, “of that choice thing that was stolen from the Louvre about twenty-five years ago. The size is similar and, as I remember it, the whole composition is in some ways identical.”

The old man was startled, but not visibly. “Was there one stolen from the Loov, sir?” he said, with a polite air of asking for information.

“Why, yes! Don’t you remember? There was a great stir at the time. It was cut out of its frame. The French Government offered a big reward, but the work has never been recovered.”

“Indeed, sir.” All at once the Old Crocodile began to gambol a little. “Let’s hope this ain’t the boy.” He gave a mild snigger. But as his next words proved there was more in that snigger than met the ear. “In the event of this little jool turning out to be stolen property, what, sir, do you suppose would be the position of the present owner?”

“Difficult to say, Mr. Gedge.”

“He’d receive compensation, wouldn’t he?”

“Substantial compensation one would think--if he was able to prove his title.”

If he was able to prove his title! Those blunt little words had a sinister sound for S. Gedge Antiques, but he did not turn a hair. “No difficulty about that, sir,” he said, robustly.

“Quite!” Evidently Sir Arthur had no doubt upon the point. “But as the question might arise it may be well to have it settled before disposing of the picture.”

S. Gedge agreed.

“And in any case, before parting with it,” said Sir Arthur, “it will be wise, I think, to take advice.”

Again S. Gedge agreed. “You mean, sir, it may be very valuable indeed?”

“Yes, I quite think it may be. At a cursory glance it has the look of a fine example of a great master. I remember at the time that ‘L’Automne’ disappeared from the Louvre, it was said to be worth at least two hundred and fifty thousand francs, and since then Van Roons have more than doubled in price.”

“In that case, sir”--there was a tremor of real emotion in the voice of the old dealer--“this be-yew-ti-ful thing ought not to be allowed to leave the country.”

“Unfortunately the French authorities may compel it to do so.” And the connoisseur sighed as he fingered the canvas lovingly.

Affirmed S. Gedge Antiques: “I don’t believe, sir, for a moment that it is ‘L’Automne.’”

“One wouldn’t like to say it is,” said the cautious Sir Arthur. “And one wouldn’t like to say it isn’t.”

“It’ll be up to the Loov to prove it, anyhow.”

“Quite. In the meantime, before you let it go, I hope you’ll give me an opportunity of looking at it again.”

This modest request caused the old man to rub his nose. He was not in a position, he said mysteriously, to give a promise, but certainly he would do his best to meet the wishes of Sir Arthur.

“Thank you, Mr. Gedge. If this picture is not claimed by other people, and of course one doesn’t for a moment suggest that it will be, steps might be taken to keep it here. We are so poor in Van Roons--there is only one, I believe--to our shame!--in this country at the present time--that we can’t afford to let a thing like this slip through our fingers. Therefore, as I say, before you decide to sell I hope you’ll take advice.”

S. Gedge Antiques gravely thanked Sir Arthur Babraham. He would keep those wise words in mind. And in the meantime he would pack _That_ in a crate--he pointed a finger straight at June’s eyes--and send it to Homefield.----

“----near Byfleet, Surrey, I think you said, sir?”

XXIX

THE distinguished visitors were bowed into the street. And then S. Gedge Antiques, with the face of a man whose soul is in torment, returned to contemplation of the picture, and also of M. Duponnet’s cheque which he took out of his pocket book. It was clear that his mind was the prey of a deep problem. The bird in the hand was well enough so far as it went, but the bird in the bush was horribly tempting.

At last with a heavy sigh the old man returned the cheque to his pocket, and then cautiously lifting up the loose board, put back the picture whence it came and drew the oak chest over the spot. He then shambled off to the room next door, which was full of odds and ends mingled with a powerful smell of oil and varnish.

June at once made an attempt to get out of prison. But she now found her position to be as she had already surmised. To enter without help had been no mean feat, to escape in the same fashion was impossible. Wedged so tightly inside the Hoodoo, there was neither play nor purchase for her hands; and frantic as her efforts were, they were yet subordinated to the knowledge that it would be quite easy for the thing to topple over. Should that happen the consequence would certainly be alarming and possibly ghastly.

Frantically wriggling in the jaws of the Hoodoo, it did not matter what she did, she was firmly held. And the fear of Uncle Si, who was pottering about quite close at hand, while imposing silence upon her, intensified the growing desperation of her case. She was a mouse in a trap.

Too soon did she learn that only one course was open to her. She must wait for William’s return. Irksome and humiliating as the position was, it was clear that she could do nothing without help.

Would William never come? The minutes ticked on and her durance grew exceedingly vile. She became conscious of pains in her shoulders and feet, she felt as if she could hardly draw breath, her head throbbing with excitement seemed as if it must burst. It was a horrible fix to be in.

Suffering acutely now, she yielded as well as she could to the inevitable. There was simply nothing to be done. She must wait. It was imprisonment in a most unpleasant form and she was frightened by the knowledge that it might continue many hours. Even when William did return, and there was no saying when he would do so, he was quite as likely to enter by the back door as by the shop. So terrible was the thought that June felt ready to faint at the bare idea.

This was a matter, however, in which fate was not so relentless after all. June was doing her best to bear up in the face of this new and paralysing fear when the shop door opened and lo! William came in.

Great was her joy, and yet it had to be tempered by considerations of prudence. She contrived to raise her lips to the mouth of the Hoodoo, and to breathe his name in a tragic whisper.