to get it cheap.  Then began our duo on the theme of atmosphere, vibrancy, etc.—­brand new phrases, mind you, in those innocent days.  As Rosenheim for a moment carried the burden alone, I stepped up to the canvas and saw, with a shock, that the paint was about two days old.  Under what conditions I wondered—­for did I not know the ways of paint—­could a real Corot have come over so fresh?  I more than scented trickery.  A sketch overpainted—–­or it seemed above the quality of a sheer forgery—­or was the case worse than that?  Meanwhile not a shade of doubt was in Rosenheim’s mind.  As I canvassed the possibilities his sotto-voce ecstasies continued, to the vast amusement, as I perceived, of a sardonic stranger who hovered unsteadily in the background.  This ill-omened person was clad in a statesmanlike black frock-coat with trousers of similar funereal shade.  A white lawn tie, much soiled, and congress gaiters, much frayed, were appropriate details of a costume inevitably topped off with an army slouch hat that had long lacked the brush.  He was immensely long and sallow, wore a drooping moustache vaguely blonde, between the unkempt curtains of which a thin cheroot pointed heavenward.  As he walked nervously up and down, with a suspiciously stilted gait, he observed Rosenheim with evident scorn and the picture with a strange pride.  He was not merely odd, but also offensive, for as Rosenheim whispered ’Comme c’est beau!’ there was an unmistakable snort; when he continued, ’Mais c’est exquis!’ the snort broadened into a mighty chuckle; while as he concluded ’Most luminous!’ the chuckle became articulate, in an ‘Oh, shucks!’ that could not be ignored.

“‘You seem to be interested, sir,’ Rosenheim remarked.  ‘You bet!’ was the terse response.  ‘May I inquire the cause of your concern?’ Rosenheim continued placidly.  With a most exasperating air of willingness to please, the stranger rejoined:  ’Why, I jest took a simple pleasure, sir, in seeing an amachoor like you talking French about a little thing I painted here in Cedar Street.’  For a moment Rosenheim was too indignant to speak, then he burst out with:  ’It’s an infernal lie; you could no more paint that picture than you could fly.’  ’I did paint it, jest the same,’ pursued the stranger imperturbably, as Rosenheim, to make an end of the insufferable wag, snapped out sarcastically, ’Perhaps you painted its mate, then, the Bolton Corot.’  ’The one that sold for three thousand dollars last week?  Of course I painted it; it’s the best nymph scene I ever done.  Don’t get mad, mister; I paint most of the Corots.  I’m glad you like ’em.’

“For a moment I feared that little Rosenheim would smite the lank annoyer dead in his tracks.  ‘For heaven’s sake be careful!’ I cried.  ’The man is drunk or crazy or he may even be right; the paint on this picture isn’t two days old.’  ‘Correct,’ declared the stranger.  ’I finished it day before yesterday for this sale.’  Then a marked