In Friendship's Guise Read online

  CHAPTER V.

  A MYSTERIOUS DISCUSSION.

  The paragraph in the Westminster _Budget_ to which Victor Nevillreferred was headed in large type, and ran as follows:

  "This morning, at his palatial residence in Amsterdam, commenced thesale of the gallery of valuable paintings collected by the late Mr.Martin Von Whele, who died while on a visit to his coffee estate inJava. He left everything to his son, with the exception of the pictures,which, by the terms of his will, were to be disposed of in order tofound a hospital in his native town. Mr. Von Whele was a keen anddiscriminating patron of art, a lover of both the ancient and themodern, and his vast wealth permitted him to indulge freely in hishobby. His collection was well known by repute throughout the civilizedworld. But the trustees of the estate seem to have committed a graveblunder--which will undoubtedly cause much complaint--in waiting untilalmost the last moment to announce the sale. But few bidders werepresent, and these had things pretty much their own way, apparentlyowing to the gross ignorance of the auctioneer. The gem of the gallery,the famous Rembrandt found and purchased in Paris some years ago by Mr.Von Whele, was knocked down for the ridiculous sum of L2,400. The luckypurchaser was Mr. Charles Drummond, of the firm of Lamb and Drummond,Pall Mall."

  A remark that would not look well in print escaped Stephen Foster's lipsas he threw the paper on his desk.

  "A blunder?" he cried. "It was criminal! A rascally conspiracy, withDrummond at the bottom of it--British cunning against Dutch stupidity! Iseldom miss anything in the papers, Nevill, and yet I never heard of VonWhele's death. I didn't get a hint of the sale."

  "Nor I," replied Nevill. "It's a queer business. I thought the paragraphwould interest you. The sale continues--do you think of running over toAmsterdam?"

  "No; I shan't go. It's too late. By to-morrow a lot of dealers will havemen on the spot, and the rest of the pictures will likely fetch fullvalue. But L2,400 for the Rembrandt! Why, it's worth five times as muchif it's worth a penny! There's a profit for you, Nevill. And I alwayscoveted that picture. I had a sort of a hope that it would drop into myhands some day. I believe I spoke to you about it."

  "You did," assented Nevill, "and I remembered that at once when I readof the sale. But I had another reason--one of my own--for calling yourattention to the matter."

  Stephen Foster apparently did not hear the latter remark.

  "I saw the Rembrandt when I was in Amsterdam, two years ago," he saidbitterly. "It was a splendid canvas--the colors were almost as fresh andbright as the day they were laid on. And as a character study it was amasterpiece second to none, and in my estimation superior to his'Gilder,' which is now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Itrepresented a Pole or a Russian, with a face of intense ferocity. Hisrank was shown by his rich cloak, the decorations on his furred hat, andby the gold-beaded mace held in his hand. Von Whele declared that thesubject was John the Third, of Poland; but that was mere conjecture. Andnow Drummond has the picture, and it will soon be drawing crowds aroundthe firm's window, I dare say. What a prize I have let slip through myfingers!"

  "I want to ask you a question," Nevill started abruptly. "Suppose thisRembrandt, or any other painting of value and renown, should be stolenfrom a big dealer's shop. How could the thief dispose of it?"

  "He would have little or no chance of doing so at once," was the reply,"unless he found some unscrupulous collector who was willing to buy itand hide it away. But in the course of a few years, when the affair hadblown over, the picture could be sold for its full value, without anyrisk to the seller, if he was a smart man."

  "Then, if you had this Rembrandt locked up in your safe, you wouldregard it as a sound and sure investment, to be realized on in thefuture?"

  "Certainly. I should consider it as an equivalent for L10,000," StephenFoster replied. "But there is not much of that sort of thing done--theordinary burglar doesn't understand the game," he went on, carelessly."And a good thing for the dealers, too. With my knowledge of the place,I could very easily remove a picture from Lamb and Drummond's store-roomany night."

  "Yes, you know the ground thoroughly. Would you like to make L10,000 ata single stroke, without risk?"

  "I don't think I should hesitate long, if it was a sure thing," StephenFoster replied, laughingly. "Nevill, what are you driving at?" he addedwith sudden earnestness.

  "Wait a moment, and I'll explain."

  Victor Nevill stepped to the door, listened briefly, and turned the keynoiselessly in the lock. He drew a chair close to his companion and satdown.

  "I am going to tell you a little story," he said. "It will interestyou, if I am not mistaken."

  It must have been a very important and mysterious communication, fromthe care with which Nevill told it, from the low and cautious tone inwhich he spoke. Stephen Foster listened with a blank expression thatgradually changed to a look of amazement and satisfaction, ofill-concealed avarice. Then the two discussed the matter together,heedless of the passage of time, until the clock struck five.

  "It certainly appears to be simple enough," said Stephen Foster, "butwho will find out about--"

  "You must do that," Nevill interrupted. "If I went, it might lead toawkward complications in the future."

  "It's the worst part, and I confess I don't like it. But I'll take anight to think it over, and give you an answer to-morrow. It's an uglyundertaking--"

  "But a safe one. If it comes off all right, I want L500 cash down, onaccount."

  "It is not certain that it will come off at all," said Stephen Foster,as he rose. "Come in to-morrow afternoon. Oh, I believe I promised yousome commission to-day."

  "Yes; sixty pounds."

  The check was written, and Nevill pocketed it with a nod. He put on hishat, moved to the door, and paused.

  "By the by, there's a new thing on at the Frivolity--awfully good," hesaid. "Miss Foster might like to see it. We could make up a little partyof three--"

  "Thank you, but my daughter doesn't care for theatres. And, as you know,I spend my evenings at home."

  "I don't blame you," Nevill replied, indifferently. "It's a snug andjolly crib you have down there by the river. And the fresh air does afellow a lot of good. I feel like a new man when I come back to townafter dining with you. One gets tired of clubs and restaurants."

  "Come out when you like," said Stephen Foster, in a voice that lackedwarmth and sincerity.

  "That's kind of you," Nevill replied. "Good-night!"

  A minute later he was walking thoughtfully down Wardour street.