a streak of yellow in
him."

"That sounds exciting," cried Barnes. "What did you do? Put the case
in the hands of the police?"

"Not much," denied Gladwin emphatically. "That would have given the
public a fine laugh. It deceived me, so I hung it up there to deceive
others. It got you, you see. But you are the only one I've let into
the secret--don't repeat it, will you?"

"Never!" promised Barnes. "It'll be too much of a lark to hear others
rave over it."

"Thank you," acknowledged the bitten collector, curtly.

Barnes wandered from "The Blue Boy" and signalled out another
painting.

"Who painted this?" he asked.

"That's a Veber--but do you know, Whitney, the more I think of
it--there's something about that grapefruit girl, something gripping
that"----

"I like these two," commented Barnes.

"There's something different about her--something"----

"Who is this by?" inquired Barnes, lost in admiration of a Meissonier.

"A blonde"----

"What?"

"And very young, and I know her smile"----

"Look here, Travers, what are these two worth?"

Gladwin volplaned to earth, climbed out of his sky chariot and was
back in the midst of his art treasures again.

"I beg your pardon," he said hastily. "Which two?"

Barnes pointed to two of the smaller pictures.

"Guess," suggested his host.

"Five thousand."

"Multiply it by ten--then add something."

"No, really."

"Yes, really! That one on the left is a Rembrandt! and the other is a
Corot!"

"My word; they're corkers, eh!"

"Yes, when you know who painted them, and if you happen to have the
eye of a connoisseur."

"And what in creation is this?" exclaimed Barnes, as he stumbled
against the great ornamental chest which stood against the wall just
beneath the Rembrandt and Corot.

"Oh, let's get the exhibition over," said Gladwin, peevishly. "That's
a treasure chest. Cost me a barrel--picked it up in Egypt."

"You never picked it up in your life," retorted Barnes, grasping the
great metal bound chest and striving vainly to lift it. "Anything in
it?" he asked, lifting the lid and answering himself in the negative.

"What's the whole collection worth?" asked Barnes, as he returned to
where his friend was standing, gazing ruefully at "The Blue Boy."

"Oh, half a million or more. I really never kept track."

"Half a million! And you go abroad and leave all these things
unguarded? You certainly are fond of taking chances. It's a marvel
they haven't be