a private collector."

"Buyer of what?" says he.

"Art," says I. "Just picked up a small lot,--that one with the Albany
night boat in it, you know."

He stares like he thought I was batty, and then rolls his chair over
closer. "Do I understand," says he, "that you have been buying a
picture--here?"

"Sure," says I. "Say, ain't you on yet, and you right in the house?
Well, you ought to get next."

"I mean to," says he. "Bladen's stuff, I suppose?"

"Uh-huh," says I. "And, believe me, Brooksy is some paint slinger;
that is, fine feelin', darin' technic, all that sort of dope."

"I see," says he, noddin' his head. "Holding a sale, is he? On one of
the upper floors?"

"Top," says I. "Quite a classy little studio joint he's made up there."

"Oh, he has, has he?" says the old boy, snappin' his eyes. "Well, of
all the confounded--er--young man, ring that bell!"

Say, how was I goin' to know? I was beginnin' to suspect that this
chatty streak of mine wa'n't goin' to turn out lucky for someone; but
it's gone too far to hedge. I pushes the button, and in comes the
butler.

"Tupper," says the old man, glarin' at him shrewd, "you know where the
top-floor studio is, don't you?"

"Ye-e-es, Sir," says Tapper, almost chokin' over it.

"You'll find Mr. and Mrs. Bladen there," goes on old Grouchy. "Ask
them to step down here for a moment at once."

Listened sort of mussy from where I sat, and I wa'n't findin' the
armchair quite so comf'table. "Guess I'll be loafin' along," says I,
casual.

"You'll stay just where you are for the present!" says he, wheelin'
himself across the door-way.

"Oh, well, if you insist," says I.

He did. And for two minutes there I listens to the clock tick and
watches the old sport's white whiskers grow bristly. Then comes the
Bladens. He waves 'em to a parade rest opposite me.

"What is it, Uncle Jeff?" says Mrs. Bladen, sort of anxious. And with
that I begins to piece out the puzzle. This was Uncle Jeff, eh, the
one with the bank account?

"So," he explodes, like openin' a bottle of root beer, "you've gone
back to your paint daubing, have you? And you're actually trying to
sell your namby-pamby stuff on my top floor? Come now, Edith, let's
hear you squirm out of that!"

Considerable fussed, Edith is. No wonder! After one glance at me she
flushes up and begins twistin' the yellow silk cord nervous; but
nothin' in the way of a not guilty plea seems to occur to he