“That’s awfully good of you.”

“Not a bit, laddie, no, no, and far from it.  Only too glad.”

Willie had returned from his rambles among the connoisseurs, and Pongo’s brother was back on his pedestal.  The high-priest cleared his throat and resumed his discourse.

“Now that you have all seen this superb figure we will—­I was offered one thousand—­one thousand-one-one-one-one—­eleven hundred.  Thank you, sir.  Eleven hundred I am offered.”

The high-priest was now exuberant.  You could see him doing figures in his head.

“You do the bidding,” said Brother Bill.

“Right-o!” said Archie.

He waved a defiant hand.

“Thirteen,” said the man at the back.

“Fourteen, dash it!”

“Fifteen!”

“Sixteen!”

“Seventeen!”

“Eighteen!”

“Nineteen!”

“Two thousand!”

The high-priest did everything but sing.  He radiated good will and bonhomie.

“Two thousand I am offered.  Is there any advance on two thousand?  Come, gentlemen, I don’t want to give this superb figure away.  Twenty-one hundred.  Twenty-one-one-one-one.  This is more the sort of thing I have been accustomed to.  When I was at Sotheby’s Rooms in London, this kind of bidding was a common-place.  Twenty-two-two-two-two-two.  One hardly noticed it.  Three-three-three.  Twenty-three-three-three.  Twenty-three hundred dollars I am offered.”

He gazed expectantly at Archie, as a man gazes at some favourite dog whom he calls upon to perform a trick.  But Archie had reached the end of his tether.  The hand that had twiddled so often and so bravely lay inert beside his trouser-leg, twitching feebly.  Archie was through.

“Twenty-three hundred,” said the high-priest, ingratiatingly.

Archie made no movement.  There was a tense pause.  The high-priest gave a little sigh, like one waking from a beautiful dream.

“Twenty-three hundred,” he said.  “Once twenty-three.  Twice twenty-three.  Third, last, and final call, twenty-three.  Sold at twenty-three hundred.  I congratulate you, sir, on a genuine bargain!”

Reggie van Tuyl had dozed off again.  Archie tapped his brother-in-law on the shoulder.

“May as well be popping, what?”

They threaded their way sadly together through the crowd, and made for the street.  They passed into Fifth Avenue without breaking the silence.

“Bally nuisance,” said Archie, at last.

“Rotten!”

“Wonder who that chappie was?”

“Some collector, probably.”

“Well, it can’t be helped,” said Archie.

Brother Bill attached himself to Archie’s arm, and became communicative.

“I didn’t want to mention it in front of van Tuyl,” he said, “because he’s such a talking-machine, and it would have been all over New York before dinner-time.  But you’re one of the family, and you can keep a secret.”