A thin, shabby little man, with stooping shoulders, hooked nose and velvet tread, stood before the card rack in the lower corridor of the old studio building on Tenth Street. He was scanning the names, beginning at the top floor and going down to the basement. Suddenly his eyes glistened:

“Second floor,” he whispered to himself. “Yes, of course; I knew it all the time—second floor,” and “second floor” he kept repeating as he helped his small body up the steps by means of the hand-rail.

The little man earned his living by obtaining orders for portraits which he turned over to the several painters, fitting the price to their reputations, and by hunting up undoubted old masters, rare porcelains, curios and miniatures for collectors. He was reasonably honest, and his patrons followed his advice whenever it was backed by somebody they knew. He was also cunning—softly, persuasively cunning—with all the patience and philosophy of his race.

On this morning the little man had a Gilbert Stuart for sale, and what was more to the point he had a customer for the masterpiece: Morlon, the collector, of unlimited means and limited wall space, would buy it provided Adam Gregg, the distinguished portrait painter, Member of the International Jury, Commander of the Legion of Honor, Hors Concours in Paris and Munich, etc., etc., would pronounce it genuine.

The distinguished painter never hesitated to give his services in settling such matters. He delighted in doing it. Just as he always delighted in criticising the work of any young student who came to him for counsel—a habit he had learned in his life abroad—and always with a hand on the boy’s shoulder and a twinkle in his brown eyes that robbed his words of any sting.

When dealers sought his help he was not so gracious. He disliked dealers—another of his foreign prejudices. Tender-hearted as he was he generally exploded with dynamic force—and he could explode when anything stirred him—whenever a dealer attempted to make him a party to anything that looked like fraud. He had once cut an assumed Corot into ribbons with his pocket-knife—and this since he had been home in New York, fifteen years now—and had then handed the strips back to the dealer with the remark:

“Down in the Treasury they brand counterfeits with a die; I do it with a knife. Send me the bill.”

The little man, with the cunning of his race, knew this peculiarity, and he also knew that ten chances to one the great painter would receive him with a frigid look, and perhaps bow him out of the door. So he had studied out and arranged a little game. Only the day before he had obtained an order for a portrait to be painted by the best man-painter of his time. The picture was to be full length and to hang in the directors’ room of a great corporation. This order he had in his pocket in writing, signed by the secretary of the board. Confirmations were sometimes valuable.

As the little man’s body neared the great painter’s door a certain pleasurable sensation trickled through him. To catch a painter on a hook baited with an order, and then catch a great collector like Morlon on another hook baited with a painter, was admirable fishing.

With these thoughts in his mind he rapped timidly on Adam Gregg’s door, and was answered by a strong, cheery voice calling:

“Come in!”

The door swung back, the velvet curtains parted, and the little man made a step into the great painter’s spacious studio.

“Oh, I have such a fine sitter for you!” he whispered, with his hand still grasping the curtain. “Such a distinguished-looking man he is—like a pope—like a doge. It will make a great Franz Hal; such a big spot of white hair and black coat and red face. He’s coming to-morrow and——”

“Who is coming to-morrow?” asked Gregg. His tone would have swamped any other man. He had recognized the dealer with a simple “Good-morning,” and had kept his place before his easel, the overhead light falling on his upturned mustache and crisp gray hair.

The little man rubbed his soft, flabby hands together, and tiptoed to where Gregg stood as noiseless as a detective approaching a burglar.

“The big banker,” he whispered. “Did you not get my letter? The price is no object. I can show you the order.” He had reached the easel now and was standing with bent head, an unctuous smile playing about his lips.

“No, I don’t want to see it,” remarked Gregg, squeezing a tube on his palette. “I can’t reach it for some time, you know.”

“Yes, I have told them so, but the young gentleman wants to have the entry made on the minutes and have the money appropriated. I had great confidence, you see, in your goodness,” and the little man touched his forehead with one skinny finger and bowed obsequiously.

“I thought you said he had white hair.”

“So he has. The portrait is to hang up in the directors’ room of one of the big copper companies. The young gentleman is a member of the banking firm that is to pay for the picture, and is quite a young man. He buys little curios of me now and then, and he asked me whom I would recommend to paint the director’s portrait, and, of course, there is but one painter—” and the dealer bowed to the floor. “He’s coming to-morrow afternoon at four o’clock and will stay but a moment, for he’s a very busy man. You will, I know, receive him.”

Gregg made no reply. Rich directors did not appeal to him; they were generally flabby and well fed and out of drawing. If this one had some color in him—and the dealer knew—some of the sort of vigor and snap that would have appealed to Franz Hal, the case might be different. The little man waited a moment, saw that Gregg was absorbed in some brush stroke, and stepped back a pace or two. Better wait until the master’s mind was free. Then again he could sweep his eyes around the interior without being detected—there was no telling what might happen: some day there might be a sale, and then it would be just as well to know where things like these could be found. Again he tiptoed across the spacious room, stopping to gaze at the rich tapestries lining the walls, examining with eye-glass held close the gold snuffboxes and rare bits of SÈvres and Dresden on the shelves of the cabinet, and testing with his nervous fingers the quality of the rich Utrecht velvet screening the door of an adjoining room.

Gregg kept at work, his square, strong shoulders, well-knit back and straight limbs—a fulfilment of the promise of his youth—in silhouette against the glare of the overhead light, its rays silvering his iron-gray hair and the tips of his upturned mustache.

The tour of the room complete, the little man again bowed to the floor and said in his softest voice:

“And you will receive him at four o’clock?”

“Yes, at four o’clock,” answered Gregg, his eyes still on the canvas.

Again the little man’s head bent low as he backed from the room. There was no need of further talk. What Adam Gregg meant he said, and what he said he meant. As he reached the velvet curtain through which he had entered, he stopped.

“And now will you do something for me?”

Gregg lifted his chin with the movement of a big mastiff throwing up his head when he scents danger. “I was waiting for that; then there is a string to it?” he laughed.

The little man reddened to his eyebrows. The fish had not only seen the hook under the bait, but knew who held the line.

“No, only that you come with me to Schenck’s to see a portrait by Gilbert Stuart,” he pleaded. “I quite forgot—it is not often I do forget; I must be getting old. It’s to be sold to-morrow; Mr. Morlon will buy it if you approve; he said so. I’m just from his house.”

“I have a sitter at three.”

“Yes, I know, but you always have a sitter. You must come—it means something to me. I’ll go and get a cab. It will not take half an hour. It is such a beautiful Stuart. There’s no doubt about it, not the slightest; only you know Mr. Morlon, he’s very exacting. He says, ‘If Mr. Gregg approves I will buy it.’ These were his very words.”

Gregg laid down his brushes. Little men like the one before him wasted his time and irritated him. It was always this way—some underhand business. Then the better side of him triumphed.

“All right!” he cried, the old sympathetic tone ringing out once more in his voice. “Never mind about the cab; I need the air and the walk will do me good; and then you know I can’t see Mr. Morlon swindled,” and he laughed merrily as he looked quizzically at the dealer.

---

The entrance of the distinguished painter into the gallery of the auctioneer with his quick, alert manner and erect, military bearing, the Legion of Honor in his lapel, soon attracted attention. Schenck came up and shook Gregg’s hands cordially, repeating his name aloud so that every one could hear it—especially the prospective buyers, some of whom gazed after him, remarking to their fellows, as they shielded their lips with their catalogues: “That’s Gregg!”—a name which needed no further explanation.

“I have come to look at a Stuart that Mr. Morlon wants to buy if it is genuine,” said Gregg. “Tell me what you know about it. Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know; it was left on storage and is to be sold for expenses.”

“Is it to be sold to the highest bidder?”

“No, at private sale.”

“Where is it?”

“There—behind you.”

Gregg turned and caught his breath.

Before him was a portrait of a young woman in an old-fashioned gown, her golden hair enshrining a face of marvellous beauty, one long curl straying down a shoulder of exquisite mould and finish, the whole relieved by a background of blossoms held together in a quaint earthen jar.

Strong man as he was, the shock almost overcame him. He reached out his hand and grasped the back of a chair. Tears welled up in his eyes.

The auctioneer had been watching him closely.

“You seem to like it, Mr. Gregg.”

“Yes,” answered Adam in restrained, measured tones. “Yes, very much. But you have been misinformed; it is not by Gilbert Stuart. It is by a man I know, I saw him paint it. Tell Mr. Morlon so. Send it to my studio, please, and credit this gentleman with the commission—I’ll buy it for old association’s sake.”

That night, when it grew quite dark, he took the portrait from where the cartman had left it in his studio with its face to the wall—never again would it suffer that indignity—and placed it under his skylight. He wanted to see what the fading light would do—whether the changed colors would once more unlock the secrets of a soul. Again, as in the dim shimmer of the dawn, there struggled out from the wonderful eyes that same pleading look—the look he had seen on its face the morning he had left Derwood Manor—as if she needed help and was appealing to him for sympathy. Then he flashed up the circle of gas jets, flooding the studio with light. Instantly all her joyousness returned. Once more there shone out the old happy smile and laughing eyes. Loosening the nails that held the canvas, he freed the portrait from its gaudy frame, and with the remark—“It was unframed when I kissed it last,” placed it over the mantel moving some curios out of the way so it would rest the more firmly; then he dropped into a chair before it.

He was in the past again—twenty-five years before, living once more the long hours in the garret with its background of blossoms; roaming the woods; listening to the sound of her joyous laughter when she caught little Phil to her breast. Then there rang in his ear that terrible moan when Judge Colton denounced them both; and the sob in her voice as she sank at his feet that night. He could catch the very perfume of her hair and feel the hot tears on his hand. If only the lips would open and once more whisper his name! What had sent her back, to soothe him with her beauty?

His whole life passed in review—his hopes, his ambitions, his struggles; the years of loneliness, of misunderstanding, and the final triumph—a triumph made all the more bitter by a fate which had prevented her sharing it with him. With this there arose in his mind the picture of two gaunt chimneys outlined against a cold, gray sky; the trees bare of leaves, the grass shrivelled and brown—and then, like a refrain, came the long-forgotten song:

Raising himself to his feet he leaned over the mantel and looked long and steadily into the eyes of the portrait.

“Olivia,” he whispered—in a voice that was barely audible—“I did not intend to be cruel. Forgive me, dear; there was nothing else to do—it was the only way, my darling!”

He was still in his chair, the studio a blaze of light, when a brother painter from the studio opposite, whose knock had been unheeded, pushed open the door. Even then Gregg did not stir until the intruder laid a hand upon his shoulder.

---