“Certainly not,” said Juggins pleasantly.  “I will tell you how I did it.  You remember the description of Mrs. Snyder?  Did you ever know a woman like that who wasn’t paying weekly instalments on an enlarged crayon portrait of herself?  The biggest factory of that kind in the country is just around the corner.  I went there and got her address off the books.  That’s all.”

III

WITCHES’ LOAVES

Miss Martha Meacham kept the little bakery on the corner (the one where you go up three steps, and the bell tinkles when you open the door).

Miss Martha was forty, her bank-book showed a credit of two thousand dollars, and she possessed two false teeth and a sympathetic heart.  Many people have married whose chances to do so were much inferior to Miss Martha’s.

Two or three times a week a customer came in in whom she began to take an interest.  He was a middle-aged man, wearing spectacles and a brown beard trimmed to a careful point.

He spoke English with a strong German accent.  His clothes were worn and darned in places, and wrinkled and baggy in others.  But he looked neat, and had very good manners.

He always bought two loaves of stale bread.  Fresh bread was five cents a loaf.  Stale ones were two for five.  Never did he call for anything but stale bread.

Once Miss Martha saw a red and brown stain on his fingers.  She was sure then that he was an artist and very poor.  No doubt he lived in a garret, where he painted pictures and ate stale bread and thought of the good things to eat in Miss Martha’s bakery.

Often when Miss Martha sat down to her chops and light rolls and jam and tea she would sigh, and wish that the gentle-mannered artist might share her tasty meal instead of eating his dry crust in that draughty attic.  Miss Martha’s heart, as you have been told, was a sympathetic one.

In order to test her theory as to his occupation, she brought from her room one day a painting that she had bought at a sale, and set it against the shelves behind the bread counter.

It was a Venetian scene.  A splendid marble palazzio (so it said on the picture) stood in the foreground—­or rather forewater.  For the rest there were gondolas (with the lady trailing her hand in the water), clouds, sky, and chiaro-oscuro in plenty.  No artist could fail to notice it.

Two days afterward the customer came in.

“Two loafs of stale bread, if you blease.

“You haf here a fine bicture, madame,” he said while she was wrapping up the bread.

“Yes?” says Miss Martha, revelling in her own cunning.  “I do so admire art and” (no, it would not do to say “artists” thus early) “and paintings,” she substituted.  “You think it is a good picture?”

“Der balance,” said the customer, “is not in good drawing.  Der bairspective of it is not true.  Goot morning, madame.”