Mr. Lumley did not reply, and Snaith continued, speaking earnestly:
“He’ll do it, for he needs the money. Note how it would seem to him. No one will know anything about it, and the new picture will look the same as the other, and if the question ever does come up, it will be supposed a mistake was made fifty years ago when his father bought it. His pride will be saved. And if two thousand doesn’t do the trick, why, you can offer him three. I just must have the thing, and I don’t mind a hundred or two one way or another. Your own fee, if you put it through, to be what you name — say £200 and expenses — that is, if you think that’s enough.”
“Enough?” cried Mr. Lumley. “More than enough.”
“That’s all right. Then you’ll take it on? Now about bona fides. I’ve inquired about you before I came here, and what I’ve heard has satisfied me. But you know nothing of me, so you’ll likely want some money instead of an introduction. As a guarantee of good faith I’ll hand you notes for £2,000. If the deal comes to more you can pay it. You’ll have the picture as security, and you can hold it till I pay you the balance. That all right?”
Mr. Lumley thought rapidly. The business appeared simple and straightforward and, so far as he could see, square.
“That seems very fair, Mr. Snaith. I’ll do what I can.”
“Good. Then count these.”
The visitor took a roll of notes from his pocket and, dividing them, handed a bundle to his new agent. There were twenty of them, Bank of England notes, each value £100.
“Correct,” said Mr. Lumley as he scribbled a receipt.
“There are two other things,” Snaith went on. “First, I don’t want my name mentioned to Lord Wentworth. As I say, we rubbed each other the wrong way over that lumber deal, and there’s no sense in putting his back up at the start. Just say a rich American wants it. And next, note my movements for the next three days. I cross tonight to Paris, and the Hotel Angleterre will find me till Friday morning. I cross Friday, call here at six p.m. for the picture, and leave Euston by the American boat train at seven. Got that?”
“I follow you,” answered Mr. Lumley. “That gives me two days. I’ll keep your case to carry the picture.”
When the American left, Mr. Lumley remained seated at his desk, his mind busy with the somewhat unusual commission with which he had been entrusted. He had frequently been asked to buy pictures, but there was a peculiar feature in this case. That idea of substituting the copy was new to his experience. But it was certainly ingenious, and if Lord Arthur were really hard up, it was conceivable that it might tempt him to agree to the proposal. But apart from this novel feature, the matter seemed reasonable and aboveboard enough. And yet Mr. Lumley was not satisfied. He was, or believed himself to be, a judge of character, and all his instincts had bade him beware of this Snaith. He felt that it behooved him to be on his guard, and stories he had read of confidence tricks recurred to his memory.
But he had undertaken the task, and it now no longer mattered whether he had been wise or foolish; he must get on with it. He saw that he had no time to lose, and eleven o’clock that night, therefore, found him moving out of King’s Cross en route for the north. But like the king of old, his thoughts troubled him and he could not sleep.
Suddenly an idea shot into his mind. Those notes — Snaith had parted with them so easily — were they forgeries? Feverishly he took them from his pocket and examined them. No, they seemed all right. But he determined he would make sure. His first business in the morning would be to call at a bank in Durham and have them tested.
And then a possible meaning of Snaith’s actions flashed before him — a real thing before which his half-nightmarish imaginings vanished. As the idea sank into his horrified brain, Nicholas Lumley began to know temptation.
He had believed that the American’s offer was a £200 commission on the completion of a sale. But he saw now that he had been mistaken. No sale had been contemplated. The thing was hideously clear. He had been offered, not £200, but £2,200 — £3,200 — any sum almost that he liked to name — to steal the picture!
And, merciful heavens, how easy it would be! He had only to devise some scheme to get to the study with his case and arrange something — a telephone call, for example — to get his lordship out of the room. Twenty seconds would do the whole thing. He could change the pictures, complete his business, leave without haste, and— Three thousand two hundred pounds! Perhaps four thousand!
Four thousand pounds! Four thousand pounds skillfully invested meant anything up to £250 a year. Mr. Lumley was not a rich man, and an additional £250 would just make the difference between continuous, wearing economy and ease.
“Oh, Lord!” he groaned.
And Snaith would say nothing. He would perhaps smile knowingly, but he would pay and take his picture and go.
He wrestled with it all night, and next morning his face was white and grim as he sallied forth from the hotel in which he had breakfasted in search of a bank. Here one of his fears was disposed of. The notes were genuine.
An hour later he stepped out of a taxi at the door of Wentworth Hall. On requesting an interview with his lordship, he was shown into a small sitting-room and asked to wait. After some minutes he was joined by Lord Arthur, an elderly man, thin and a little stooped, whose face was lined as if from care and suffering.
He looked like a man with an incurable disease, to whom life is a continuous burden. But there was no trace of bitterness about him, and his manner as he waved Mr. Lumley to a chair was not only courteous in the extreme, but even kindly.
“I am a commission agent, as you may have seen from my card, Lord Arthur,” began Mr. Lumley, “and I have called on behalf of a wealthy American client to lay before you a proposal which I sincerely trust you will not consider objectionable. May I say, as explaining my own position, that I have been offered a handsome commission — no less than £200 — if my client’s wishes can be met? You will understand, therefore” — Mr. Lumley smiled slightly — “how much I hope you will see your way at least to give the proposal your full consideration.”
Lord Arthur seemed pleased by his visitor’s candor.
“I will certainly do that,” he replied pleasantly. “What does your client want?”
For answer, Mr. Lumley opened the dispatch-case and took from it Mr. Snaith’s picture.
“Good gracious!” cried Lord Arthur when the tissue paper had been unrolled. “My Greuze! How did you get that?” He looked sharply, and with some suspicion, at his visitor.
“It is not yours, Lord Arthur. It is only a copy. But I wish you would tell me what you think of it.”
The old gentlemen bent over the frame.
“If I had not your assurance, I should swear it was mine,” he said at last. “Why, the very frame is identical. Bring it into the study and let us compare.”
Mr. Lumley, having folded back the paper and replaced the frame in its case, followed the owner of the house to a large, well-furnished, airy room, giving on the terrace before the entrance. Lord Arthur closed the door and directed his visitor’s attention to the wall above the fireplace.
Though he knew what to expect, Mr. Lumley could scarcely refrain from a start of astonishment, for there, to all intents and purposes, hung the veritable picture which had been given to him by Snaith.
“Put yours beside it,” Lord Arthur directed.
Mr. Lumley obeyed, and held his picture on the wall next the other. Both men gazed in silence. The two seemed absolutely identical; the most minute examination even of the frames failed to discover any difference between them.
“I shouldn’t have believed it,” Lord Arthur said after a prolonged scrutiny; and then, indicating a deep armchair before the fire, “But sit down, won’t you, and tell me all about it.”