lady. An exquisite thing; sorry I cannot replace it, sir," remarked
the vendor, "Show you anything else?"

"You could not order me another, could you?" blankly demanded
Clayton, with a baffled sense of losing both the lady and the art
gem.

"It was a unique proof," volubly continued Lilienthal. "I might,
however,"--he briskly turned to an assistant, and after a few words,
led the annoyed Clayton back to a counter.

There a packing case was lying, plainly marked 'Fraulein Irma
Gluyas, No. 192 Layte Street, Brooklyn."

"I might open it," hesitated the dealer, "and yet, the lady might
not like it. She paid a round price for it, a hundred dollars. And
some persons do not like to have a proof duplicated. Still, I could
get the artist's name and address, and then my agents in Vienna
perhaps could get one. I might see the lady. She is a patron of
mine. This is Mr. Randall Clayton, is it not?"

The young man started in surprise, as his hand involuntarily
closed upon the handle of his portmanteau. "Oh, we are neighbors,"
laughed Lilienthal. "Your Mr. Robert Wade frequently drops in here
to pick up an etching or a bit of French color. I do a good deal
of business with the gentlemen of the Western Trading Company."

Clayton dropped his hand, instantly mollified. "I wish you would
see what you can do," he cordially said. "Perhaps the lady only
purchased it to fill a place on the walls of her drawing room. I,