ted. Still, I could
get the artist's name and address, and then my agents in Vienna
perhaps could get one. I might see the lady. She is a patron of
mine. This is Mr. Randall Clayton, is it not?"

The young man started in surprise, as his hand involuntarily
closed upon the handle of his portmanteau. "Oh, we are neighbors,"
laughed Lilienthal. "Your Mr. Robert Wade frequently drops in here
to pick up an etching or a bit of French color. I do a good deal
of business with the gentlemen of the Western Trading Company."

Clayton dropped his hand, instantly mollified. "I wish you would
see what you can do," he cordially said. "Perhaps the lady only
purchased it to fill a place on the walls of her drawing room. I,
at least, would like to be allowed to open it and have you take the
particulars. If she has no objection, you might be able to order
me a replica."

Lilienthal stood musing for a moment with his ferret eyes gleaming
under their bushy brows. "I might try! Suppose you look in here
after your lunch. The fact is," laughed the dealer, "Fraeulein
Gluyas only took a sudden fancy to the Danube view a few days ago.
And she has gone down to the bank to get the money to gratify her
whim. She seemed to think some one else might claim it, and she
dropped in a half an hour ago, and ordered it packed up. She will
take it home in her carriage, as such a proof can be easily injured."

Randall Clayton's eyes were fixed on the floor, as he nodded an
assent. "I'll be back in half an hour. See what you can do," he
pleasantly said. "And at any rate, I'll be thankful to be allowed
to have the data."

"I think I can fix it all right," genially remarked Lilienthal.
"Fraeulein Gluyas is a Hungarian prima donna of rare merit, an artist,
too, of no mean order. She may be heard here in grand opera this
winter. She is living in retirement until Mr. Grau's return, as
she does not want to be heralded before the public."

Clayton tried to appear unconcerned as he asked, "Is she married?"

"She is single," carelessly remarked Lilienthal, showing Clayton to
the door. "And I am told she has refused some very eligible offers
at home. But she is a Magyar of an old and noble family and they
detest the Austrian nobility, who have now all the fortunes and
privileges of the old Hungarian noblesse."

With crimsoned cheeks Randall Clayton was speeding away to the bank
before he had digested the crafty dealer's story. He was reassured
at the