interested? In
pictures? In furniture? In--"

"In almost anything that is rare and beautiful," confided Craig, looking
Jacot squarely in the eye and adding, "and not particular about the
price if he wants a thing, either. But I--I am particular--about one
thing."

Jacot looked up inquiringly.

"A rebate," Kennedy went on insinuatingly, "a commission on
the bill--you understand? The price is immaterial, but not
my--er--commission. Comprenez-vous?"

"Parfaitement," smiled the little Frenchman. "I can arrange all that.
Trust me."

We spent an hour, perhaps, wandering up and down the long aisles of the
store, admiring, half purchasing, absorbing facts about this, that and
the other thing that might captivate the fictitious Mr. Morehouse.

Not satisfied with what was displayed so temptingly in the front of the
store, Kennedy wandered back of a partition apparently in search of some
more choice treasures, before Jacot could stop him. He turned over a
painting that had been placed with its face toward the wall, as if for
protection. I recognized the subject with a start. It was Watteau's
Fete!

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Kennedy in well-feigned ecstasy, just as Jacot
came up.

"Ah, but, M'sieur," interposed the art dealer, "that is only a copy--and
not for sale."

"I believe my friend, Mr. Faber, has a copy," ventured Craig.

"By a Miss Fleming?" asked Jacot quickly, apparently all interest now.

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. Was Jacot hinting at something known in
the trade?

"Might I photograph some of the things here to show Mr. Morehouse?"
asked Craig a moment later. "I see several things in which I think he
might be interested."

"Surely," answered Jacot, then, after consideration, in which his beady
eye seemed to size up Kennedy, he added, sotto voce, craftily, "Would
Mr. Morehouse be--er--interested in Watteau's Fete?"

My heart almost stopped beating. Were we really on the right track at
last?

Jacot leaned over confidentially to Kennedy and added, "Why not sell as
an original, not this, but another copy--a--a--what you call it?--a
fake?"

I understood. Kennedy, having invited crooked dealing by his remark
about the rake-off, was being approached about another crooked deal.

"A fake Watteau?" he asked, appearing to meet Jacot halfway.

Jacot nodded. "Why not? You know the same Botticelli belongs to
collectors in Philadelphia and Boston; that is, each has a picture and
if one is genuine the othe