“Very nice,” he admitted.  “Late Flemish, isn’t it?”

“No, It is a copy of Vidal’s ‘Roaring Lion.’”

“Vidal?”

“A French artist.”  The voice became indescribably flat.  “He, also, had the misfortune to be blind, by the way.”

“You old humbug, Max!” shrieked Carlyle, “you’ve been thinking that out for the last five minutes.”  Then the unfortunate man bit his lip and turned his back towards his host.

“Do you remember how we used to pile it up on that obtuse ass Sanders, and then roast him?” asked Carrados, ignoring the half-smothered exclamation with which the other man had recalled himself.

“Yes,” replied Carlyle quietly.  “This is very good,” he continued, addressing himself to the bronze again.  “How ever did he do it?”

“With his hands.”

“Naturally.  But, I mean, how did he study his model?”

“Also with his hands.  He called it ‘seeing near.’”

“Even with a lion—­handled it?”

“In such cases he required the services of a keeper, who brought the animal to bay while Vidal exercised his own particular gifts ...  You don’t feel inclined to put me on the track of a mystery, Louis?”

Unable to regard this request as anything but one of old Max’s unquenchable pleasantries, Mr. Carlyle was on the point of making a suitable reply when a sudden thought caused him to smile knowingly.  Up to that point, he had, indeed, completely forgotten the object of his visit.  Now that he remembered the doubtful Dionysius and Baxter’s recommendation he immediately assumed that some mistake had been made.  Either Max was not the Wynn Carrados he had been seeking or else the dealer had been misinformed; for although his host was wonderfully expert in the face of his misfortune, it was inconceivable that he could decide the genuineness of a coin without seeing it.  The opportunity seemed a good one of getting even with Carrados by taking him at his word.

“Yes,” he accordingly replied, with crisp deliberation, as he re-crossed the room; “yes, I will, Max.  Here is the clue to what seems to be a rather remarkable fraud.”  He put the tetradrachm into his host’s hand.  “What do you make of it?”

For a few seconds Carrados handled the piece with the delicate manipulation of his finger-tips while Carlyle looked on with a self-appreciative grin.  Then with equal gravity the blind man weighed the coin in the balance of his hand.  Finally he touched it with his tongue.

“Well?” demanded the other.

“Of course I have not much to go on, and if I was more fully in your confidence I might come to another conclusion——­”

“Yes, yes,” interposed Carlyle, with amused encouragement.

“Then I should advise you to arrest the parlourmaid, Nina Brun, communicate with the police authorities of Padua for particulars of the career of Helene Brunesi, and suggest to Lord Seastoke that he should return to London to see what further depredations have been made in his cabinet.”