“But my money isn’t Sam’s money,” he went on without pausing, “and Sam won’t touch a penny of it.  Never does unless I fool him on the sly.  And I’ve come up here to fool him now, and fool him bad.  I want you to hold on to this bust—­wait until I get it out of my pocket.”  Here he pulled out a small bronze, a head of Augustus, beautifully wrought.

“If you buy the picture, I’ll throw in the ancient Roman,” and he laid it on the counter.

“And I want you to write Sam a note, asking him if he can’t look around for one of his masterpieces, something say ten by fourteen; wanted for a customer who only buys good things.  That any little landscape with water in it will do.  Remember, don’t leave out the water.  Then Sam will come thumping down-stairs with the note, and I’ll be awfully astonished and we’ll talk it over, and I’ll pull this out from under a pile of stuff where I’ll hide it as soon as I get home.  Then I’ll say:  ’Well, I’m going up-town and have Mr. O’Day look at it, and maybe it will suit him, and that if it does, I’ll make him pay fifty dollars for it.’  How do you think that will work?”

Felix, who had been looking into the old fellow’s eyes, reading his mind in their depths, seeing clear down into the heart beneath, now picked up the bronze and began passing his hand over it.

“Very lovely,” he said at last, “and a marvellous paten.  Where did you get it?”

“Spoken like a gentleman and a man of honor, and this time you tell the truth.  It’s just what you say —­marvellous.  I swapped a twenty by thirty for it.  Will you take it?”

Felix shook his head, a smile playing about his lips.

“I would if I wanted to be unfair.  Here, take your bronze and leave the picture.  I will find a frame for it, and have one of the men give it a coat of varnish.”

“And you’ll write the note?”

“Is that necessary?”

“Of course, it’s necessary.  You don’t know Sam.  He’s as cunning as a weasel and can get away before you know it.  Got to fool him.  I always do.  Told him more lies in one minute this morning than a horse can trot.  Will you write the note?”

Felix laughed.  “Yes, just as soon as you go.”

“And you won’t hold on to the bronze?”

“No, I won’t hold on to the bronze.”

“And you can get fifty dollars for this unexampled work of art?  That, of course, is the asking price.  Ten would do a whole lot of good.”

“I cannot say positively, but I will try.”

“All right.  And now where’s that darling child?”

A laugh rang out from the top of the stairs, the laugh of a child overjoyed at meeting some one she loves, followed by “do you mean me?”

“Of course, I mean you, Toddlekins.  Come down here and let me give you a big hug.  And I’ve got a message for you from that dried-up old fellow with the shaggy head.  He sent you his love—­every bit of it, he said.  And he’s found some more gewgaws he’s going to bring up some day.  Told me that, too.”