Priam’s heart trembled.

“What is your opinion, maitre,” he asked, “of the ultimate value of Farll’s pictures?”

Priam was in misery.  Mr. Oxford’s manner was deferential, amiable and expectant.  But Priam did not know what to say.  He only knew what he would do if he could have found the courage to do it:  run away, recklessly, unceremoniously, out of that club.

“I—­I don’t know,” said Priam, visibly whitening.

“Because I’ve bought a goodish few Farlls in my time,” Mr. Oxford continued, “and I must say I’ve sold them well.  I’ve only got that one left that I showed you this morning, and I’ve been wondering whether I should stick to it and wait for a possible further rise, or sell it at once.”

“How much can you sell it for?” Priam mumbled.

“I don’t mind telling you,” said Mr. Oxford, “that I fancy I could sell it for a couple of thousand.  It’s rather small, but it’s one of the finest in existence.”

“I should sell it,” said Priam, scarcely audible.

“You would?  Well, perhaps you’re right.  It’s a question, in my mind, whether some other painter may not turn up one of these days who would do that sort of thing even better than Farll did it.  I could imagine the possibility of a really clever man coming along and imitating Farll so well that only people like yourself, maitre, and perhaps me, could tell the difference.  It’s just the kind of work that might be brilliantly imitated, if the imitator was clever enough, don’t you think?”

“But what do you mean?” asked Priam, perspiring in his back.

“Well,” said Mr. Oxford vaguely, “one never knows.  The style might be imitated, and the market flooded with canvases practically as good as Farll’s.  Nobody might find it out for quite a long time, and then there might be confusion in the public mind, followed by a sharp fall in prices.  And the beauty of it is that the public wouldn’t really be any the worse.  Because an imitation that no one can distinguish from the original is naturally as good as the original.  You take me?  There’s certainly a tremendous chance for a man who could seize it, and that’s why I’m inclined to accept your advice and sell my one remaining Farll.”

He smiled more and more confidentially.  His gaze was charged with a secret meaning.  He seemed to be suggesting unspeakable matters to Priam.  That bright face wore an expression which such faces wear on such occasions—­an expression cheerfully insinuating that after all there is no right and no wrong—­or at least that many things which the ordinary slave of convention would consider to be wrong are really right.  So Priam read the expression.

“The dirty rascal wants me to manufacture imitations of myself for him!” Priam thought, full of sudden, hidden anger.  “He’s known all along that there’s no difference between what I sold him and the picture he’s already had.  He wants to suggest that we should come to terms.  He’s simply been playing a game with me up to now.”  And he said aloud, “I don’t know that I advise you to do anything.  I’m not a dealer, Mr. Oxford.”