"Michael, dear, you mustn't overdo yourself just because you happen to
have been a little stronger these past two days," said his wife, laying
a gentle hand upon his arm. "Besides, we must give Mr. Rickaby time to
breathe. He has had a long journey, and I am sure he will want to rest.
You can take him in to see that wonderful collection after dinner,
dear."

"Humph! Full of fakes, as I supposed--and she knows it," was Cleek's
mental comment upon this. And he was not surprised when, finding herself
alone with him a few minutes later, she said, in her pretty, pleading
way:

"Mr. Rickaby, if you are an expert, don't undeceive him. I could not let
you go to see the collection without first telling you. It is full of
bogus things, full of frauds and shams that unscrupulous dealers have
palmed off on him. But don't let him know. He takes such pride in them,
and--and he's breaking down--God pity me, his health is breaking down
every day, Mr. Rickaby, and I want to spare him every pang, if I can,
even so little a pang as the discovery that the things he prizes are not
real."

"Set your mind at rest, Mrs. Bawdrey," promised Cleek. "He will not find
it out from me. He will not find anything out from me. He is just the
kind of man to break his heart, to crumple up like a burnt glove, and
come to the end of all things, even life, if he were to discover that
any of his treasures, anything that he loved and trusted in, is a sham
and a fraud."

His eyes looked straight into hers as he spoke, his hand rested lightly