He turned on the electric lamp, opened a secret compartment drawer in the table, abstracted a tiny key, and, deftly making a packet of the scattered proofs, unlocked a small hidden safe behind a row of first editions of Bunyan and consigned them to secure obscurity.

A moment later his secretary entered the room in response to his ring.

“I’m going out,” he said.  “Lock up, will you, and at any time Mrs. Marteen wants to see me admit her at once.”

Mr. Saunders’ face shone.  He, too, was a devout worshiper at the shrine of art.

“The Vandyke?” he inquired hopefully.

“Well, no—­but I’m negotiating for a very remarkable series of letters—­of—­er—­Napoleon—­concerning—­er Waterloo.”

* * * * *

II

When Marcus Gard dressed that evening he was so absent-minded that his valet held forth for an hour in the servants’ hall, with assurances that some mighty coup was toward.  Not since the days of B.L. & W. or the rate war on the S. & O. had his master shown such complete absorption.

“He’s like a blind drunk, or a man in a trance, he is—­he’s just not there in the head, and you have to walk around and dress his body, like he was a dumb wax-work.  If I get the lay, Smathers, I’ll tip you off.  There might be something in it for us.  He’s due for dinner and bridge at the Met., but unless Frenchy puts him out of the motor, he won’t know when he gets there”—­which proved true.  Three times the chauffeur respectfully advised his master of their arrival, before the wondering eyes of the club chasseur, before the Great Man, suddenly recalled to the present, descended from his car and was conducted to his waiting host.

The first one of the company to shake hands with him was Victor Mahr—­and Victor Mahr was a friend of Mrs. Marteen.  The sudden recollection of this fact made him cast such a glance of scrutiny at the gentleman as to quite discompose him.

“What’s the old man up to, gimleting me in the eye like that?  He’s got something up his sleeve,” thought Mahr.

“I wonder did she ever corner him?” was the question uppermost in Gard’s mind.  He hated Mahr, and rather hoped that the lady had, then flushed with resentment at the thought that she would stoop to blackmail a man so obviously outside the pale.  His mood was so unusual that every man in the circle was stirred with unrest and misgiving.  Dinner brightened the general gloom, though there were but trifling inroads into the costly vintages.  One doesn’t play bridge with the Big Ones unless one’s head is clear.  Not till supper time did the talk drift from honors and trumps.  Gard played brilliantly.  His absent-mindedness changed to savage concentration.  He played to win, and won.

“What’s new in the art world?” inquired Denning, as he lit a cigar.  “There was a rumor you were after the Heim Vandyke.”