"That last purchase of yours must have been a good thing for young--"
Hasluck mentioned the name of a painter since world famous; "been the
making of him, I should say."

"I gave him two thousand for the six," replied Teidelmann, "and
they'll sell for twenty thousand."

"But you'll never sell them?" exclaimed my father.

"No," grunted old Teidelmann, "but my widow will." There came a soft,
low laugh from a corner of the table I could not see.

"It's Anderson's great disappointment," followed a languid, caressing
voice (the musical laugh translated into prose, it seemed), "that he
has never been able to educate me to a proper appreciation of art.
He'll pay thousands of pounds for a child in rags or a badly dressed
Madonna. Such a waste of money, it appears to me."

"But you would pay thousands for a diamond to hang upon your neck,"
argued my father's voice.

"It would enhance the beauty of my neck," replied the musical voice.

"An even more absolute waste of money," was my father's answer, spoken
low. And I heard again the musical, soft laugh.

"Who is she?" I asked Barbara.

"The second Mrs. Teidelmann," whispered Barbara. "She is quite a