producers of unscrupulous agents, but pictures run them a very good
second. Anyhow, we found out that our distinguished art-critic
picked up his Rembrandt at this dealer's shop, and came down with
it in his care the same night to Brighton.

In order not to act precipitately, and so ruin our plans, we induced
Dr. Polperro (what a cleverly chosen name!) to bring the Rembrandt
round to the Metropole for our inspection, and to leave it with us
while we got the opinion of an expert from London.

The expert came down, and gave us a full report upon the alleged
Old Master. In his judgment, it was not a Rembrandt at all, but
a cunningly-painted and well-begrimed modern Dutch imitation.
Moreover, he showed us by documentary evidence that the real
portrait of Maria Vanrenen had, as a matter of fact, been brought
to England five years before, and sold to Sir J. H. Tomlinson, the
well-known connoisseur, for eight thousand pounds. Dr. Polperro's
picture was, therefore, at best either a replica by Rembrandt; or
else, more probably, a copy by a pupil; or, most likely of all,
a mere modern forgery.

We were thus well prepared to fasten our charge of criminal
conspiracy upon the self-styled Doctor. But in order to make
assurance still more certain, we threw out vague hints to him that
the portrait of Maria Vanrenen might really be elsewhere, and even
suggested in his hearing that it might not improbably have got into
the hands of that omnivorous collector, Sir J. H. Tomlinson. But
the vendor was proof against all such attempts to decry his goods.
He had the effrontery to brush away the documentary evidence, and to
declare that Sir J. H. Tomlinson (one of the most learned and astute
picture-buyers in England) had been smartly imposed upon by a needy
Dutch artist with a talent for forgery. The real Maria Vanrenen, he
declared and swore, was the one he offered us. "Success has turned
the man's head," Charles said to me, well pleased. "He thinks we
will swallow any obvious lie he chooses to palm off upon us. But the
bucket has come once too often to the well. This time we checkmate
him." It was a mixed metaphor, I admit; but Sir Charles's tropes
are not always entirely superior to criticism.

So we pretended to believe our man, and accepted his assurances.
Next came the question of price. This was warmly debated, for form's
sake only. Sir J. H. Tomlinson had paid eight thousand for his
genuine Maria. The Doctor demanded ten thousand fo