wn eyes that
robbed his words of any sting.

When dealers sought his help he was not so gracious. He disliked
dealers--another of his foreign prejudices. Tender-hearted as he was
he generally exploded with dynamic force--and he could explode when
anything stirred him--whenever a dealer attempted to make him a party
to anything that looked like fraud. He had once cut an assumed Corot
into ribbons with his pocket-knife--and this since he had been home in
New York, fifteen years now--and had then handed the strips back to
the dealer with the remark:

"Down in the Treasury they brand counterfeits with a die; I do it with
a knife. Send me the bill."

The little man, with the cunning of his race, knew this peculiarity,
and he also knew that ten chances to one the great painter would
receive him with a frigid look, and perhaps bow him out of the door.
So he had studied out and arranged a little game. Only the day before
he had obtained an order for a portrait to be painted by the best
man-painter of his time. The picture was to be full length and to
hang in the directors' room of a great corporation. This order he had
in his pocket in writing, signed by the secretary of the board.
Confirmations were sometimes valuable.

As the little man's body neared the great painter's door a certain
pleasurable sensation trickled through him. To catch a painter on a
hook baited with an order, and then catch a great collector like
Morlon on another hook baited with a painter, was admirable fishing.

With these thoughts in his mind he rapped timidly on Adam Gregg's
door, and was answered by a strong, cheery voice calling:

"Come in!"

The door swung back, the velvet curtains parted, and the little man
made a step into the great painter's spacious studio.

"Oh, I have such a fine sitter for you!" he whispered, with his hand
still grasping the curtain. "Such a distinguished-looking man he
is--like a pope--like a doge. It will make a great Franz Hal; such a
big spot of white hair and black coat and red face. He's coming
to-morrow and----"

"Who is coming to-morrow?" asked Gregg. His tone would have swamped
any other man. He had recognized the dealer with a simple
"Good-morning," and had kept his place before his easel, the overhead
light falling on his upturned mustache and crisp gray hair.

The little man rubbed his soft, flabby hands together, and tiptoed to
where Gregg stood as noiseless as a detective approaching a burglar.

"