“Not as I knows on,” the plasterer replied, picking up his brush, “and as to the missing property, there was nowt but a few mouldy rugs and a flower-pot in the room.  Some folks does seem able to work themselves up into a fuss about nothing, and no mistake!  Good morning, guvnor!  Drop in again some time when you’re passing.”

Burton turned out of Wenslow Square and approached the offices and salesrooms of Messrs. Waddington & Forbes with some misgiving.  Bearing in mind the peculiar nature of the business conducted by the firm, he could only conclude that ruin, prompt and absolute, had been the inevitable sequence of Mr. Waddington’s regrettable appetite.  He was somewhat relieved to find that there were no evidences of it in the familiar office which he entered with some diffidence.

“Is Mr. Waddington in?” he inquired.

A strange young man slipped from his stool and found his questioner gazing about him in a bewildered manner.  There was much, indeed, that was surprising in his surroundings.  The tattered bills had been torn down from the walls, the dust-covered files of papers removed, the ceilings and walls painted and papered.  A general cleanliness and sense of order had taken the place of the old medley.  The young man who had answered his inquiry was quietly dressed and not in the least like the missing office-boy.

“Mr. Waddington is at present conducting a sale of furniture,” he replied.  “I can send a message in if your business is important.”

Burton, who had always felt a certain amount of liking for his late employer, was filled now with a sudden pity for him.  Truth was a great and marvelous thing, but the last person who had need of it was surely an auctioneer engaged in the sale of sham articles of every description!  It was putting the man in an unfair position.  A vague sense of loyalty towards his late chief prompted Burton’s next action.  If help were possible, Mr. Waddington should have it.

“Thank you,” he said, “I will step into the sales-room myself.  I know the way.”

Burton pushed open the doors and entered the room.  To his surprise, the place was packed.  There was the usual crowd of buyers and many strange faces; the usual stacks of furniture of the usual quality, and other lots less familiar.  Mr. Waddington stood in his accustomed place but not in his accustomed attitude.  The change in him was obvious but in a sense pathetic.  He was quietly dressed, and his manner denoted a new nervousness, not to say embarrassment.  Drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead.  The strident note had gone from his voice.  He spoke clearly enough, but more softly, and without the familiar roll.

“Gentlemen—­ladies and gentlemen,” he was saying as Burton entered, “the next item on the catalogue is number 17, described as an oak chest, said to have come from Winchester Cathedral and to be a genuine antique.”

Mr. Waddington leaned forward from his rostrum.  His tone became more earnest.