Rickman's eyes were wandering dreamily from the matter in hand. They
had alighted on an enormous photograph of Miss Poppy Grace. For an
instant thought, like a cloud, obscured the brilliance of Mr.
Pilkington's face.

"Anyhow I've given you the straight tip," said Pilkington.

"Thanks. We'll send a fellow down to overhaul the thing."

"He'd better hurry up then. It _may_ have to go by auction after all.
But if you'd like the refusal of it, now's your chance."

But Rickman betrayed no enthusiasm.

"You'd better see the guv'nor about it."

Mr. Pilkington looked Rickman up and down, and encountered an
immovable determination in his gaze.

"Right you are. I'll send him word to-night. Ta-ta!" He turned again
in the moment of departing. "I say, he must send a good man down, you
know. It'll take an expert. There's a lot of old things--Greek and
Latin--that's something in _your_ line, isn't it?"

But Rickman's line at present was the line of least resistance. It was
ten past ten, and Poppy Grace was "on" from ten fifteen to ten forty.