the paint still wet on it:  ’That picture was painted by a certain painter.  I am an expert, and I stake my reputation on it’ It’s no use telling me that the painter in question died several years ago and was buried with national honours in Westminster Abbey.  I say it couldn’t have been so.  I’m a connoisseur.  And if the facts of his death and burial don’t agree with the result of my connoisseurship, I say they aren’t facts.  I say there’s been a—­a misunderstanding about—­er—­ corpses.  Now, cher maitre, what do you think of my position?” Mr. Oxford drummed lightly on the table.

“I don’t know,” said Priam.  Which was another lie.

“You are Priam Farll, aren’t you?” Mr. Oxford persisted.

“Well, if you will have it,” said Priam savagely, “I am.  And now you know!”

Mr. Oxford let his smile go.  He had held it for an incredible time.  He let it go, and sighed a gentle and profound relief.  He had been skating over the thinnest ice, and had reached the bank amid terrific crackings, and he began to appreciate the extent of the peril braved.  He had been perfectly sure of his connoisseurship.  But when one says one is perfectly sure, especially if one says it with immense emphasis, one always means ‘imperfectly sure.’  So it was with Mr. Oxford.  And really, to argue, from the mere existence of a picture, that a tremendous deceit had been successfully practised upon the most formidable of nations, implies rather more than rashness on the part of the arguer.

“But I don’t want it to get about,” said Priam, still in a savage whisper.  “And I don’t want to talk about it.”  He looked at the nearest midgets resentfully, suspecting them of eavesdropping.

“Precisely,” said Mr. Oxford, but in a tone that lacked conviction.

“It’s a matter that only concerns me,” said Priam.

“Precisely,” Mr. Oxford repeated.  “At least it ought to concern only you.  And I can’t assure you too positively that I’m the last person in the world to want to pry; but—­”

“You must kindly remember,” said Priam, interrupting, “that you bought that picture this morning simply as a picture, on its merits.  You have no authority to attach my name to it, and I must ask you not to do so.”

“Certainly,” agreed Mr. Oxford.  “I bought it as a masterpiece, and I’m quite content with my bargain.  I want no signature.”

“I haven’t signed my pictures for twenty years,” said Priam.

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Oxford.  “Every square inch of every one is unmistakably signed.  You could not put a brush on a canvas without signing it.  It is the privilege of only the greatest painters not to put letters on the corners of their pictures in order to keep other painters from taking the credit for them afterwards.  For me, all your pictures are signed.  But there are some people who want more proof than connoisseurship can give, and that’s where the trouble is going to be.”