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The two stood together in the garden on the little gravel path, looking across a bed of forget-me-nots and a small fence at the working men.

Barnabas—his real name was John Kirby, but he had first been nicknamed the Comforter, and finally Barnabas, the Son of Consolation, by his fellow-artists—was a tall man who would have looked even taller if it had not been for the huge frame of the man beside him.

“I wouldn’t mind that bit of furniture myself,” said Barnabas, as a beautiful corner cupboard was unearthed from the van. “Hullo! what’s this? ‘The Winged Victory,’ by Jingo! and a pedestal. Here’s art and no mistake. Pictures, too. Here, you,” he called to the two men who were carrying them, “allow us momentarily to cast our eyes upon those treasures. Ye gods and little fishes! a Nicholson, a Pryde, two Sickerts, and a genuine Bartolozzi print. The ancient lady evidently possesses not only taste but cash—hard coin of the realm, my child.”

“Those old fogies always have tons of money,” grunted Dan.