have an appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own
time." Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr. Baxter's
right eye. "Offmunson he's called, and a bright young pedigree-hunter
has traced his descent from Offa, King of Mercia. So he--quite
naturally--wants a set of Offas as a sort of collateral proof."

"Very interesting," murmured Mr. Carlyle, fidgeting with his watch. "I
should love an hour's chat with you about your millionaire
customers--some other time. Just now--look here, Baxter, can't you
give me a line of introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing
who happens to live in town? You must know dozens of experts."

"Why, bless my soul, Mr. Carlyle, I don't know a man of them away from
his business," said Mr. Baxter, staring. "They may live in Park Lane
or they may live in Petticoat Lane for all I know. Besides, there
aren't so many experts as you seem to imagine. And the two best will
very likely quarrel over it. You've had to do with 'expert witnesses,'
I suppose?"

"I don't want a witness; there will be no need to give evidence. All I
want is an absolutely authoritative pronouncement that I can act on.
Is there no one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or
not?"

Mr. Baxter's meaning silence became cynical in its implication as he
continued to look at his visitor across the counter. Then he relaxed.

"Stay a bit; there is a man--an amateur--I remember hearing wonderful
things about some time ago. They say he really does know."