Mr. Lumley slipped his copy back in the case and sat down.
“My client,” he explained, “is an enthusiastic collector. He has recently purchased the companion to this, and he is keenly anxious to get the original of this one also. He wondered whether by any chance you could be induced so far to oblige him as to accept this copy, together with whatever sum you cared to name — he suggested £2,000 — but whatever you thought fair, in exchange for the original.”
Lord Arthur stared.
“Upon my word,” he exclaimed, “this is a very extraordinary business.” He sat in thought for a few moments; then, with a little sidelong glance, asked:
“Suppose I said three thousand?”
“If you think that a fair figure, I am authorized to pay it.”
His lordship made a gesture of surprise.
“Extraordinary!” he repeated. “And how does your client know that my picture is the original?”
“That, unfortunately, I cannot explain to your lordship, as I am not in his confidence. But I may say that he seemed perfectly satisfied on the point.”
“It’s more than I am. I may tell you that I have always regarded that picture — my own, I mean — as a copy. And I don’t think, even if it were the original, that it would be worth anything like what you say. My knowledge of pictures, I admit, is but slight, still, I should say that a thousand would be its outside price.”
“Then, Lord Arthur,” interjected Mr. Lumley with a smile, “would you allow me to change it for a thousand pounds?”
“I didn’t say that. What I meant was that I should like an explanation of what seems to me a very peculiar proposal, to put it mildly. A man comes to me and offers me for a copy of a picture at least twice the outside value of the original. It sounds queer on the face of it, doesn’t it?”
“But, Lord Arthur, you must remember that in such a case the intrinsic value of the picture may not represent its reasonable price. It may have an additional sentimental value. If may be an heirloom. You might not care to hang anything but an original on your walls. These are considerations which my client took into account. That they have a cash value would be recognized in any court of law.”
“Quite true,” Lord Arthur admitted. “And,” he went on dryly, “bearing these points in mind, suppose I accept your £2,000 for my copy, would you be satisfied with these terms?”
“More than satisfied. I should be grateful.”
“You said you had the money there?”
For answer, Mr. Lumley laid the twenty £100 notes on the table. Lord Arthur took them up.
“You will excuse me, I’m sure, but the matter is so very extraordinary that I think I am entitled to ask, how do I know that these are genuine, and, if genuine, are not stolen?”
“Perfectly entitled, Lord Arthur. I would suggest that you send a man with them to your bank, and let the matter stand over until you receive his report.”
Lord Arthur did not reply, but, moving over to his table, he wrote for a few seconds, and blotted what he had written.
“Sign that, and you may take the picture,” he said.
The document read:
Received from Lord Arthur Wentworth, Wentworth Hall, the copy of Greuze’s “Une Jeune Fille” which up to now has hung on his study wall, in return for the copy of the same picture supplied him by the undersigned on this date, and in consideration of the sum of two thousand pounds (£2,000), which has been paid in Bank of England £100 notes, numbered A61753E to A61772E.
“I don’t want to take your client’s money on false pretenses,” Lord Arthur went on, “so if within a month he has satisfied himself that he has bought a copy, I will refund him his £2,000 and his picture on his returning my own. If he likes to pay this money for the exchange, I do not see why I should not accept it. But you must warn him from me that I think he is in error, and the responsibility must be his alone. At all events, may I say I think you have fairly earned your commission?”
Mr. Lumley, having expressed his gratitude and satisfaction, signed the receipt for the picture, obtained another for the money, exchanged the pictures, packed his purchase in the case, and, greatly rejoicing, took his leave.
As he sat smoking in the afternoon express to King’s Cross, he wondered idly which of them — Snaith or Lord Arthur — held the correct view about the picture. In any case, it did not matter very much to him, Lumley. He had done what he was asked, he would give Snaith a true account of what had happened, claim his commission, and, so far as he was concerned, the incident would be closed.
And then occurred one of those singular coincidences which are supposed to take place only in books, but which, as a matter of fact, happen more frequently in real life. It chanced that at Grantham, Dobbs, the R.A., got into the compartment which up till then Mr. Lumley had occupied in solitary state. Now, Lumley had played golf with Dobbs and the two were on friendly terms.
They conversed on general topics for some minutes, and then it occurred to Mr. Lumley that it would be interesting to get Dobbs’s opinion of the Greuze. He therefore opened his case and produced the picture.
“What do you think of that?” he asked, as he handed it over.
“Too dark to say,” returned the other, “but it looks a jolly fine copy.”
“A copy?”
“A copy, yes. It’s a well-known picture. Unless” — the R.A. smiled — “unless you are just back from a burglarous expedition to Paris, the original is still in the Louvre.”
Mr. Lumley gasped.
“I suppose, Dobbs,” he said earnestly, “you’re sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure. Everyone knows that who knows anything at all of pictures. Why, I remember the exact place on the wall where it’s hung. I’ve looked at it scores of times. You didn’t by any chance think it was an original?”
“I know nothing about it, but I bought it for a man who thought so.”
“H’m. How much, if it’s a fair question?”
“Two thousand.”
The R.A. stared.
“Good Lord, man!” he cried. “You’re not serious? The original of that picture is worth, perhaps, £1,200. This” — he tapped the painting on his knee — “is worth, well, say £40 at the outside limit.”
Mr. Lumley felt the bottom dropping out of his world.
“I don’t understand the thing any more than you do,” he answered slowly. “I was commissioned to buy this particular picture. I was told I might give two thousand or three, or practically anything that was asked, but I was to get the thing.”
“I suppose it was a confidential deal?”
“Well, yes, I’m afraid so; but it would not be a breach of confidence to say it was for an American of the nouveau riche type.”
Dobbs tossed his head contemptuously.
“That explains it,” he said with a short laugh. And then the talk drifted into other channels.
But though Mr. Lumley felt no responsibility for a mistake, had such been made, there still remained in his mind an uneasy feeling about the whole affair. And later on the same evening he made a discovery which perturbed him still further.
He was wrestling with the problem of how Snaith, a man who had visited most of the galleries of Europe, could have failed to know that the original was in the Louvre. And then he recollected that this puzzle was not confined to the American. Snaith had not trusted his own judgment. He had consulted the best authority on pictures of whom he knew in London — Mitchell of Pall Mall. Mitchell’s name was unfamiliar to Mr. Lumley, but at all events he must be an authority, and — Mitchell had not known either.