Vogelstein swayed uncomfortably in his chair, puffed, swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, “There are some things one can’t say right out; you know that as well as I, but I can say this:  there are many great and enterprising collectors in America, and Morrison is the only one who never doubts anything he has once bought.”

“An ideal client then.”

“Quite so.  You see the others get worried by the critics.  That means exchanging, refunding—­all sorts of trouble.”

“But Morrison never?”

“Never; he’s a true sport.  He never squeals.”

“Doesn’t have to because he doesn’t know he’s hurt.”

“That’s right,” concluded Vogelstein, his face corrugating into one ample, contented smile.

“Then the big game reduces itself into selling to Morrison.”

“That’s more or less it, Sir.  For a critic you have a business head.”

“You will excuse a rather personal question, but how do you feel about selling your best customer at enormous prices objects which you know to be false?”

“It’s a fair question since we are talking between ourselves, and you shall have a straight answer.  First my business isn’t just a nice one.  In the nature of the case it wouldn’t do for sensitive people.  I suppose you and Brush, for instance, couldn’t and wouldn’t make much out of it.  Then as regards Morrison, I’m not so sure he could complain if he knew.  I give him the things he likes and the treatment he likes at the prices he likes.  What more can any merchant do?”

I saw the subject rapidly exhausting itself and tried one more tack.  “Yes, it’s simpler than I supposed,” I admitted, “but it doesn’t seem quite an every-day thing to sell the Balaklava Coronal to anybody under Brush’s nose.”

“It’s easier than you think,” echoed Vogelstein.  “You don’t know Morrison.  Hope he’ll look in to-night.  You ought to meet him.”

My last bolt was shot.  It was my turn to sit silent and drink.  What could be this strange infatuation of the hardheaded Morrison, this avowedly simple magic of the grossly cunning Vogelstein?  As I pondered the case I noticed Brush give a startled glance towards the entrance, heard heavy steps behind us, and then a deep voice saying, “Hallo again, Vogelstein, I’m lucky not to be too late to catch you.”

Vogelstein lumbered to his feet and muttered an introduction.  We all took our seats, as the headwaiter bustled obsequiously up to take Morrison’s order of champagne.  As if also obeying Morrison’s nod, but reluctantly, Brush crawled over from his corner, a scarcely deferential attendant transporting his lemonade.

While casual greetings and some random talk went on I tried to picture the scene we must present.  Neither Brush nor myself is contemptible physically or in other ways, yet we both seemed curiously the inferiors of these troglodytic giants.  Our scruples, the voluntary complication of our lives, seemed to constitute at least a disadvantage when measured against the primitiveness, perhaps the rather brutal simplicity, of our companions.