“I am very sorry,” said Jack, “but I fear I have nothing whatever to sell at present.  I am indeed flattered by your kind interest in my work.”

“Monsieur has nothing?”

Jack shook his head.

“You see I do a great deal in the way of magazine drawing,” he explained.  “The half-finished water-colors on the easels are orders.  I expect to have a large painting in the Royal Academy shortly.”

“Alas, I will not be able to see it,” M. Marchand murmured.  “I leave London to-morrow.”  All the time he was speaking he had been looking with interest about the studio, and his eyes still wandered from wall to wall.  “Ah, monsieur, I have a thought,” he added suddenly.  “It is of the finished pictures, of your later work, that you speak.  But surely you possess many sketches, and among them would be some of Paris, such as you placed with Jacques Cambon.  Is it not so?”

Jack, in common with all artists, was reluctant to part with his sketches.  But he was growing uncomfortably hungry, and felt disposed to make a sacrifice for the sake of getting rid of his importunate visitor.

“I will show you my collection,” he answered briefly.

Lifting the drapery of a couch, he pulled out one of half a dozen fat portfolios, of huge dimensions.  He untied the strings and opened it, exhibiting a number of large water-color drawings on bristol-board, most of them belonging to his student days in Paris, some made in Holland and Normandy.  The sight of them, recalling his married life with Diane, awoke unpleasant memories.  He moved away and lighted a cigarette.

The Frenchman began to turn the sketches over eagerly, and presently Jack saw him staring hard at an unstiffened canvas which he had found.  It was the duplicate Rembrandt painted for Martin Von Whele.  Jack had not been reading the papers much of late, and was ignorant of the Hollander’s death.

“That is nothing of any account,” he said.  “It is the copy of an old master.”

“Ah, I have a little taste for the antique,” replied M. Marchand.  “This is repulsive—­it is a frightful face.  Were it in my collection, monsieur, it would quite spoil my pretty bits of scenery.”

He tossed the canvas carelessly aside, and finally chose a couple of water-colors, both showing picturesque nooks of Paris.

“I should like to have these,” he said, “if monsieur is willing to name a price.”

“Fifteen pounds for the two,” Jack announced reluctantly.  “Can I send them for you?” he added.

“No; I will take them with me.”

Jack tied up the portfolio and replaced it under the couch, an operation that was closely watched by his visitor.  Then he wrapped up the two sketches, and received three five-pound notes.

“May I offer you some refreshment?” he said, politely.  “You will find brandy there—­”

“I love the golden whisky of England,” protested M. Marchand.