Stephen Ringsmith in his way is a public man, and such he likes to consider himself.

He is an art dealer in a very big way, and he is also a pillar of one of the political parties. He could have a baronetcy for the asking, but he has no children and he prefers to be a power behind the throne rather than a lackey in front of it.

Ringsmith is what is called a strong man. He knows the value of money, but he enjoys spending it. He lives in princely style, but he is not exactly a snob and he prides himself on his independence. His hobby is what he calls “picking winners”—men, not horses. He likes to “spot” some young fellow who he thinks has it in him to get on, then he backs him. He believes that nothing succeeds like success, having tested the truth of the saying himself. When something disagreeable has to be done, he does it and damns the consequences but he does not shrink from them.

One afternoon old Peter Knott went to see the famous art dealer. The latter was sitting in a deep leather chair with his feet near the fender, a silver tea-service resplendent under a high silver lamp beside him. To Peter Knott, as he entered, the impression was that of a comfort both solid and luxurious.

Ringsmith’s strong-willed face lit up. He had much regard for Peter, in spite of the latter’s being almost the only man who did not hesitate to say what he thought to him, whether palatable or not.

“Ha, old bird! I know what you’ve come for.”

Ringsmith has a large mouth, and although he is getting towards sixty his teeth are strong and sound. His voice is loud and its tone bullying, as of one accustomed to ordering people about and to having his way. Somehow this doesn’t offend, perhaps because you expect it of a man with his red, mottled skin, bushy eyebrows, and heavy jaw.

Old Peter finished his bit of buttered toast and quietly sipped his tea.

“Yes?” he said.

“What is it this time, Peter, a box for the Red Cross Matinee or a subscription to the new fund? Come on, out with it.”

Peter screwed his single glass into one of his shrewd grey eyes, and examining the muffin dish, carefully selected another piece of toast.

“Try again,” he remarked.

“It’s worse than I thought.” The big man looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye as he put a cigar in his mouth and lighted a match. The other finished his tea and lay back in his chair.

“Not at all, not at all, Stephen. A friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell, wants to sell her pictures.”

Peter Knott has a soft, gentle voice, and he spoke slowly, looking into the fire.

“She is an old friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell. I was best man to Tom when he married her. Lord! What a long time ago!”

Ringsmith glanced towards Peter; he said nothing, and there was a moment’s silence before the latter continued—

“Tom didn’t leave anything except the property, which goes to the boy; he’s at the Front. There are the two girls to provide for. I advised her to sell the pictures long ago, but she couldn’t bear to part with them. Now, with new taxation and so on, she feels she must. It’s a bad time for selling, isn’t it, Stephen?”

“The worst.”

“What do you advise?”

“I never advise; people must make up their minds for themselves.” Then, as though it were an after-thought: “What sort of pictures are they?”

“There are a Corot, a Mauve, and a Daubigny, I believe. The Corot is said to be a particularly good one.”

“Um—what does she want for them?”

“I don’t think poor Mary has any idea about the price; she asked me, but there’s one thing I won’t do, and that’s to be mixed up in an art deal—”

Ringsmith’s eyes flashed; he flicked the ash off his cigar angrily.

“Mixed up—art deal! Then why the devil do you come to me?”

Peter Knott smiled at him benignly.

“Oh! Because you and I are old friends, Stephen. I’m sure you’ll treat her better than any one else.”

Ringsmith moved uneasily.

“Why don’t you tell her to go to some one else first? I like people to fix their price before they come to me, then I can take it or leave it. They’ve got such fantastic ideas about the value of things.”

“Oh, very well, if you prefer. I thought you’d be pleased I came to you, but of course—”

Peter made a slight waving motion with his hand, dismissing the subject, and began talking of other things.

A quarter of an hour later he rose to go. He said good-bye, and was just leaving the room when Ringsmith called him back.

“About those pictures—I should like to oblige you, Peter.”

“Yes?”

“Where can they be seen?”

Peter Knott took a half-sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ringsmith without comment. Ringsmith glanced at it and threw it on the table.

“All right,” he said, “leave it to me; I’ll see what can be done, but these aren’t times to buy, you know.”

“So you said,” Peter replied, and went gently out of the room.

The next morning Ringsmith was early at his office. After looking over his letters he sent for MacTavish. The shrewd Scotsman was said to be the cleverest picture-buyer in the country. He came in, a tall, thin man, clean-shaven, with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Ringsmith doesn’t stand on terms of ceremony with his employees: he comes to the point at once.

“D’you remember that Corot we sold to Peter Whelan of Philadelphia? When was it—two or three years ago?”

“Certainly I do, Mr. Ringsmith.”

“Can you say off-hand what we made on that deal?”

“No,” replied MacTavish cautiously, “but I do remember what we gave for it, and what we sold it for. There were a lot of expenses on that deal.” There was a cunning look in MacTavish’s eyes as he added the last words.

“Um, yes—what were the figures?”

“We gave £4,000, but it included those ormulu vases which Joyce sold for us at Christie’s. You remember we were wrong about those, and it took some of the gilt off.”

Ringsmith’s heavy eyebrows met in a scowl.

“Well?” he said irritably.

“Whelan gave £7,500. He’s a hard nut, you know.”

“That’ll do now, MacTavish. I want you to go and call at this place, have a look at the pictures, and report.”

Mr. MacTavish lost no time in calling at Mrs. Stillwell’s house. She was out, but had left a note for the gentleman from Mr. Ringsmith’s, asking him to look at the pictures, and expressing her regret that she could not show them to him herself. She was quite unable, she said, to decide upon a price, which she left entirely to Mr. Ringsmith.

A few days later Mrs. Stillwell was writing to her boy at the Front when Mr. MacTavish was announced. She is a slight, refined, gentle-looking little lady, and rose from her chair with some embarrassment. She had never had anything to do with gentlemen like Mr. MacTavish before, and hardly knew whether she ought to shake hands with him or not; but she did so with a gracious and slightly deprecating air. She felt she was under an obligation to him for giving him so much trouble, and she disliked very much being compelled to talk to him about selling her pictures.

“Won’t you have a cup of tea, Mr. MacTavish?” she asked, not knowing exactly what to say.

The tall Scotsman declined politely, and came straight to business.

Mrs. Stillwell half-rose from her chair.

“Oh, thank you very much, thank you very much!” she said hastily.

“Purely a matter of business, madam. You may not be aware that in these times buying pictures is a somewhat dangerous operation.”

“Oh, indeed! I didn’t know.”

Mrs. Stillwell blanched at the word “dangerous.”

“I mean, we may be compelled to keep them for a considerable time. It’s not easy to find purchasers.”

“No, I suppose not, Mr. MacTavish.”

“You are still unable to fix a price, Mrs. Stillwell?”

“I really—I—no, I don’t think so. I have no idea what the value of the pictures is.”

“Pictures have no value, madam; they are worth just what they can be sold for, neither more nor less.”

“Oh, indeed! Yes.”

“Mr. Ringsmith has decided to give you what I think may be considered in the circumstances a very handsome price for the three pictures. He has told me that I may offer you £5,000.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s very kind indeed of Mr. Ringsmith.” Mrs. Stillwell was quite astonished; she had not expected nearly so much.

MacTavish lost no time; he handed her a cheque, and in a few moments took his departure.

Some weeks passed. Ringsmith again occupied the deep leather chair, and Peter Knott was announced.

“Good afternoon, Stephen; thought I’d look in for a moment. No, thanks.” This in answer to Ringsmith’s offer of tea.

“Mrs. Stillwell told me about the deal, Stephen.”

“Well, were you satisfied?”

Peter Knott didn’t answer the question.

“By the way,” he remarked softly, “her boy’s just come back. Got shot through one of his lungs. Extraordinary thing—miracle almost. He’s made a marvellous recovery, thanks entirely to a motor ambulance being handy. They got him to the base hospital, and now he’s almost convalescent. Aren’t you glad you subscribed, Stephen?”

“Of course I’m glad. I don’t give money unless I want to.”

“You are very good about it, Stephen—very. I was wondering whether”—Peter Knott looked up at Ringsmith—“you’d feel like giving me another little cheque. You know these ambulances break down dreadfully fast. Fresh ones are always wanted, and with the new campaign—”

“Really, Peter, you try me pretty high. It’s give, give, give. You seem to think that I’ve got a bottomless pocket.”

“Not exactly bottomless, Stephen.”

“But I say you do. I can’t go on like this. Every day there’s some new demand. Look at this.” He took a type-written letter from the table and handed it to his friend. Peter Knott stuck his eyeglass into his eye and slowly read the letter.

“I say, Stephen, this must be the wrong letter. It’s from those wheelworks of yours, telling you they’ve got so many orders they can’t execute them, and that there’s a new contract from the Government. They want to extend the works.”

“Well, damn it! doesn’t that mean more money, and the Government takes pretty nearly all the profit. You seem to forget that money’s wanted in business. I shall have to shut up shop if this goes on. D’you think giving employment to hundreds of workmen isn’t worth something, too? I’m thinking very seriously of closing Crossways Hall altogether; in fact, I should, only that it would cost me almost as much as keeping it open. There’s no man in the country who has done more in the public interest than I have, but there’s a limit to everything.”

Ringsmith scowled at Peter, who made no attempt at replying.

“By the way, Ringsmith, did you know Whelan is over here? I met him quite by chance yesterday. Seems he’s come over on a large Government contract for shells. He asked after you. Told me about a Corot you sold him some years ago. He seemed to think he’d paid a big price.”

“Well, he didn’t.” The tone of Ringsmith’s reply was irritable. Peter Knott stopped putting on his gloves and looked at Ringsmith inquiringly.

“Not a big price? He told me £7,500.”

“Oh, he told you that, did he? Have you any idea what kind of expenses there are in a transaction of that kind?”

“Not the slightest, Stephen.”

“You don’t seem to realize that there are not many people who have the antipathy to being mixed up in art deals that you have.”

“Ah!” Peter Knott moved to the door.

“Good-bye, Stephen,” he murmured, and closed it gently behind him.

By the first post in the morning Peter Knott received the following letter—

DEAR PETER,

Thinking it over after you left, I have decided to send you the enclosed for the motor ambulance fund. I never like refusing you, but I should like you to remember that business is one thing and charity another.

Yours ever,

STEPHEN RINGSMITH.

Within the letter was a cheque for £2,500.

“Not so bad,” muttered Peter, “but he’s got the Mauve and the Daubigny for nothing, and there were no expenses on this deal.”