to the depletion of his pocket-book, there are sufficient antique
treasures of every variety stored away in dingy shop windows and dingier
rooms to furnish a small town. Number 320, which by chance or design
failed to display the name of its proprietor, differed from its
neighbors in one marked respect. Instead of the usual conglomerate mass,
articles of value cheek by jowl with worthless rubbish, the long window
contained some rare pieces of china and silver, an Italian hall-seat of
richly carved oak, and half a dozen paintings by well-known artists of
the past century, the authenticity of which was an excuse for the amount
at which they were priced.

Behind the window was a deep and narrow room, lined on both sides with
cabinets of great age and curious workmanship, oaken furniture belonging
to various periods, pictures restored and pictures cracked and faded,
cases filled with dainty objects of gold and silver, brass work from
Moorish and Saracenic craftsmen, tall suits of armor, helmets and
weapons that had clashed in battle hundreds of years before, and other
things too numerous to mention, all of a genuine value that put them
beyond the reach of a slim purse.

In the rear of the shop--which was looked after by a salesman--was a
small office almost opulent in its appearance. Soft rugs covered the
floor, and costly paintings hung on the walls. The chairs and desk, the
huge couch, would have graced a palace, and a piece of priceless
tapestry partly overhung the big safe at one end. An incandescent lamp
was burning brightly, for very little light entered from the dreary
court on which a single window opened.

Here, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Stephen Foster sat poring over a
sheaf of papers. He was a man of fifty-two, nearly six feet tall and