Mr. Carlyle did not attempt to conceal his disappointment as he returned the coin to the bag and replaced the bag in the inner pocket.

“I had been relying on you,” he grumbled reproachfully.  “Where on earth am I to go now?”

“There is always the British Museum.”

“Ah, to be sure, thanks.  But will anyone who can tell me be there now?”

“Now?  No fear!” replied Mr. Baxter.  “Go round in the morning—­”

“But I must know to-night,” explained the visitor, reduced to despair again.  “To-morrow will be too late for the purpose.”

Mr. Baxter did not hold out much encouragement in the circumstances.

“You can scarcely expect to find anyone at business now,” he remarked.  “I should have been gone these two hours myself only I happened to have an appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own time.”  Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr. Baxter’s right eye.  “Offmunson he’s called, and a bright young pedigree-hunter has traced his descent from Offa, King of Mercia.  So he—­quite naturally—­wants a set of Offas as a sort of collateral proof.”

“Very interesting,” murmured Mr. Carlyle, fidgeting with his watch.  “I should love an hour’s chat with you about your millionaire customers—­some other time.  Just now—­look here, Baxter, can’t you give me a line of introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing who happens to live in town?  You must know dozens of experts.”

“Why, bless my soul, Mr. Carlyle, I don’t know a man of them away from his business,” said Mr. Baxter, staring.  “They may live in Park Lane or they may live in Petticoat Lane for all I know.  Besides, there aren’t so many experts as you seem to imagine.  And the two best will very likely quarrel over it.  You’ve had to do with ‘expert witnesses,’ I suppose?”

“I don’t want a witness; there will be no need to give evidence.  All I want is an absolutely authoritative pronouncement that I can act on.  Is there no one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or not?”

Mr. Baxter’s meaning silence became cynical in its implication as he continued to look at his visitor across the counter.  Then he relaxed.

“Stay a bit; there is a man—­an amateur—­I remember hearing wonderful things about some time ago.  They say he really does know.”

“There you are,” explained Mr. Carlyle, much relieved.  “There always is someone.  Who is he?”

“Funny name,” replied Baxter.  “Something Wynn or Wynn something.”  He craned his neck to catch sight of an important motor-car that was drawing to the kerb before his window.  “Wynn Carrados!  You’ll excuse me now, Mr. Carlyle, won’t you?  This looks like Mr. Offmunson.”

Mr. Carlyle hastily scribbled the name down on his cuff.

“Wynn Carrados, right.  Where does he live?”

“Haven’t the remotest idea,” replied Baxter, referring the arrangement of his tie to the judgment of the wall mirror.  “I have never seen the man myself.  Now, Mr. Carlyle, I’m sorry I can’t do any more for you.  You won’t mind, will you?”