he air of conspirators. No secrets from me, please. What is it all
about?"

"We are lamenting the antiquity of your hat," Mabane answered gravely.
"Arthur assures us that it is out of date. It ought to be flat and
bunchy, and it isn't!"

"Geese!" she exclaimed lightly, "both of you! Arthur, I'm ashamed of
you. You may know something about motors, but you are very ignorant
indeed about hats. Come along, all of you, and gaze at my miniatures. I
am longing to see how they look framed."

"As regards the hat----" I began.

"I will not hear anything more about it," she interrupted, laughing. "Of
course, if you don't like to be seen with me--oh! Why, look! look!"

We had stopped before a case of miniatures. In the front row were two
somewhat larger than the others, and Isobel's first serious attempts.
Behind each was stuck a little ivory board bearing the magic word
"Sold."

"Sold!" Arthur exclaimed incredulously.

"It may be a mistake," I said slowly.

Mabane and I exchanged glances. We knew very well that, though the
miniatures showed promise of talent, they were amateurish and imperfect,
and the reserve which we had placed upon them was quite out of all
proportion to their merit. It must surely be a mistake! We followed
Isobel across the room. A little elderly gentleman was sitting before a
desk, engaged in the leisurely contemplation of a small open ledger.
Isobel had halted in front of him. There was a delicate flush of pink on
her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant.

"Are my miniatures sold, please?" she exclaimed. "My name is Miss de
Sorrens. They have a small ivory board just behind them which says
'Sold.'"

The elderly gentleman looked up, and surveyed her calmly over the top of
his spectacles.

"What did you say that your name was, madam, and the number of your
miniatures?" he enquired.

"Miss Isobel de Sorrens," she answered breathlessly, "and my miniatures
are number two hundred and seven and eight--a portrait of an elderly
lady, and two hundred and eighty-nine--a child."

The little old gentleman turned over the pages of his ledger in very
leisurely fashion, and consulted a recent entry.

"Your miniatures are sold, Miss de Sorrens," he said, "for the reserve
price placed upon them--twenty guineas each. The money will be paid to
you on the close of the Exhibition, according to our usual custom."

"Please tell me who bought them," she begged. "I want to be quite sure
that there is no mistake."