It was Morrison who cut these reflections short.  “You will excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “for introducing a matter of business here, but the case is pressing and it may even interest you as critics of art.”  We nodded permission and he continued, “It’s about the Bleichrode Raphael, as of course you know, Vogelstein.  I like it, I want it, but I hear all sorts of things about it, and frankly it strikes me as dear at the price.  How do you feel about it?”

At the mention of the Bleichrode Raphael, Brush and I started.  The forgery was more than notorious.  The Bleichrode panel had begun life poorly but honestly as a Franciabigio—­a portrait of an unknown Florentine lad with a beretta, the type of which Raphael’s portrait of himself is the most famous example.  The picture hung long in a private gallery at Rome and was duly listed in the handbooks.  One day it disappeared and when it once more came to light it had become the Bleichrode Raphael.  Its Raphaelisation had been effected, as many of us knew, by the consummate restorer Vilgard of Ghent, and for him the task had been an easy one.  It had needed only slight eliminations and discreet additions to produce a portrait of Raphael by himself far more obviously captivating than any of the genuine series.  Soon the picture vanished from Schloss Bleichrode, and it became anybody’s guess what amateur had been elected to become its possessor.  The museums naturally were forewarned.

While this came into Brush’s memory and mine, Vogelstein’s countenance had become severe, almost sinister, and he was answering Morrison as follows: 

“Mr. Morrison, I have offered you the Bleichrode Raphael for half a million dollars.  You will hear all sorts of gossip about it.  Doubtless these gentlemen (indicating us) believe it is false and will tell you so (we nodded feebly).  But I offer it not to their judgment but to yours.  You and I know it is a beautiful thing and worth the money.  I make no claims, offer no guarantee for the picture.  You have seen it, and that’s enough.  If you don’t want it, it makes no difference to me, I can sell it to Theiss (the great Parisian amateur, Morrison’s only real rival), or I will gladly keep it myself, for I shall never have anything as fine again.”

Morrison sat impassively while Vogelstein watched him narrowly.  Brush and I felt for something that ought to be said yet would not come.  At the end of his speech, or challenge, Vogelstein’s expression had softened into one of the most courtly ingenuousness, now it hardened again into a strange arrogance.  His eyes snapped as he continued with affected indifference, “Since you have raised the question, Mr. Morrison, the Bleichrode Raphael is yours to take or leave—­to-night.”

There was a pause as the two giants faced each other.  Then Morrison smiled beamingly, as one who loved a good fighter, and said, “Send it round tomorrow, of course I want it.  Well, that’s settled, and if these gentlemen will spare you, I’ll give you a lift down town.”