“My man has tipped his hand,” came Brencherly’s voice.  “The other one is more than interested—­excited.  Make your cast and you get a bite on your picture bait.”

Gard telephoned his orders to several brokers to sell and sell quickly and make no secret of it, then returned to work with a laugh upon his lips.

Contrary to his habit he remained in his office during the luncheon hour, having a tray sent in.  He was to remain invisible.  Mahr would doubtless make every effort to find him by what might appear accident.  Later a message, asking him to join a bridge game at the Metropolitan Club, caused him to chuckle.  His would-be host was a friend of Mahr’s.  He answered curtly that he was sick of wasting his time at cards, and had decided to drop it for a while, hanging up the receiver so abruptly that the conversation ceased in the midst of a word.  An hour later Mahr addressed him over the wire.

“Ah, Gard, is that you?  I called you up to tell you the Heim Vandyke has just been sent up to me.  I hear you were interested in it yourself, though you saw only the photograph.  Don’t you want to stop in on your way uptown and see it?  It’s a gem.  You’ll be sorry you didn’t bid on it.  But, joking aside, you’re the connoisseur whose opinion I want.  I don’t give a continental about the dealers; they’ll fill you up with anything.”  Gard growled a brief acceptance.  “I’ll be glad to see you.  Good-by.”

Abruptly he terminated his interviews and conferences, adjourning all business till the following day.  Mentioning an hour when, if necessary, he might be found in his home, he dismissed his officials, slipped into his overcoat, secured his hat, turned at the door of his private office, muttering something about his stick, and, quickly crossing the room, opened a drawer of his writing table and drew forth a small, snub-nosed revolver.  He hesitated a moment, tossed it back, and squaring his shoulders strode from the room.

Half an hour later he entered the spacious lobby of Victor Mahr’s ostentatious dwelling.

“Mr. Mahr is expecting you, sir,” said the solemn servant, who conducted him to a vast anteroom, hung with trophies of armor, and bowed him into a second room, book-lined and businesslike, evidently the secretary’s private office, deserted now and in some confusion, as if the occupant had left in haste.  The servant crossed to a door opposite, and having discreetly knocked and announced the distinguished visitor, bowed and retired.  The lackey would have taken Gard’s overcoat and hat, but he retained his hold upon them, as if determined that his stay should be short.

Mahr rose to greet him, his hand extended.  Gard’s impedimenta seemed to preclude the handshake, and the host hastened to insist upon his guest being relieved.

Gard shook his head.  “I have only a moment to inspect your picture, Mahr,” he said coldly.

“Oh, no, don’t say that.  Have a highball; you will find everything on the table.  What can I give you?  This Scotch is excellent.”