drunk or crazy or he may even be right; the paint on this picture isn't
two days old.' 'Correct,' declared the stranger. 'I finished it day
before yesterday for this sale.' Then a marked change came over
Rosenheim's manner. He grew positively deferential. It delighted him to
meet an artist of talent; they must know each other better. Cards were
exchanged, and Rosenheim read with amazement the grimy inscription
'_Campbell Corot, Landscape Artist_.' 'Yes, that's my painting name,'
Campbell Corot said modestly; 'and my pictures are almost equally as good
as his'n, but not quite. They do for ordinary household purposes. I
really hate to see one get into a big sale like the Bolton; it don't seem
honest, but I can't help it; nobody'd believe me if I told.' Rosenheim's
demeanour was courtly to a fault as he pleaded an engagement and bade us
farewell. Already apparently he divined a certain importance in so
remarkable a gift of mimicry. I stayed behind, resolved on making the
nearer acquaintance of Campbell Corot."

* * * * *

"Rosenheim clearly understands the art of business," interrupted the
Antiquary. "And the business of art," added the Critic. "Could your
seedy friend have painted my Corot?" said the Patron in real distress.
"Why not?" continued the Painter remorselessly. "Only hear me out, and
you may judge for yourself. Anyhow, let's drop your Corot; we were
speaking of mine."

"To make Campbell Corot's acquaintance proved more difficult than I had
expected. He confided to me immediately that he had been a durn fool to
give himself away to my friend, but talk was cheap, and people never
believed him, anyway. Then gloom descended, and my professions of
confidence received only the most surly responses. He unbent again for a