All the details had been settled.  The FLUTTERBY was sailing in a day or two.  The relic would be brought on board, at dead of night, by the faithful Andrea, who would return to the Count with a cheque in his pocket.  It was a considerable sum; so considerable that Caloveglia had displayed great hesitation in accepting it.  But the millionaire pointed out that the parties must be guided by Sir Herbert’s opinion.  What was the good, he asked, of employing a specialist?  Sir Herbert Street had declared the bronze to be priceless, unique.  His employer, therefore, insisted on paying what the other had called “an adequate amount, if the value of such a work of art can be expressed in monetary figures at all.”  There was nothing more to be said.  The Count gave way, with graceful reluctance.  A sham ancestry having been manufactured for the masterpiece (it was proved to come from Asia Minor) in order to elude the vigilance of the Italian Government, the Locri Faun could thereafter be freely displayed to the American public, and Sir Herbert Street was probably right in foretelling that it would be the show piece of the millionaire’s museum-artists and antiquarians flocking to see it from every part of the world.

And Mr. van Koppen, as he drove along, was thinking of that cheque; he was converting the dollars into francs.  They made rather an awkward sum.  He decided to round it off, if only for the sake of appearances; a further reason for not sending the cheque till the last moment, together with a carefully worded letter to allay the Count’s scruples.  The old fellow might otherwise return the balance, in a fit of conscientiousness.  Like himself, Count Caloveglia was infernally, and very properly, punctilious—­in small matters.

Yes, there was some fun, at times, in being a millionaire.  Or a sculptor either, for that matter!  For it evidently took some doing—­a little thing like that Locri Faun.  It took some doing.  And it was worth doing:  that was the main point.  A man who could bamboozle Sir Herbert Street—­such a man deserved to be supported.  And what if the truth ultimately leaked out?  Had he not acted with the best intentions, under the written advice of an expert?  Far from feeling uneasy, Mr. van Koppen smiled at the thought of how his millions, backed by the opinion of a connoisseur of international reputation, had enabled him to play yet one more trick upon that great Republic whose fathomless gullibility no one had ever exploited to a better purpose than himself. . . .

Mr. Eames was waiting for the bishop, according to appointment.

“How about Mrs. Meadows?” he at once began.

“She was out, invisible.  I waited nearly two hours and then lunched with Count Caloveglia.  By the way, have you seen anything of Denis lately?”

“No.  Why?”

“The old man seemed to be concerned about him.  He asked me to make enquiries.  Van Koppen thought that he might have got into trouble with some girl.  But that strikes me as very unlikely.  He may be a little homesick and lonely, so far from his mother.”