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He was little the worse for his imprudence, and was able to sail on the steamer that carried the picture. He beat it to Paris, and went at once to Candace Brothers, strolling in as if he had no purpose beyond killing time by looking about. He slowly led the conversation round to a point where Louis Candace, to whom he was talking, would naturally begin to think of the Acton sale.

“We’re getting in several pictures from New York,” said Candace—“from the Acton sale.”

“I was ill while it was on,” said Grafton, carelessly. “What did you take?”

“A Rousseau, a Corot, a Wyant, and a—Velasquez.” He hesitated before speaking the last name, and looked confused as Grafton slightly elevated his eyebrows. “Of course,” he hurried on, “we strongly suspect the Velasquez; in fact, we know it’s not genuine. But we’re delighted to get it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Grafton. “I know you too well to suspect that it will be sold as a Velasquez.”

“But certainly not. Even if we did that sort of thing, we couldn’t deceive any of your rich countrymen or any of the English with it. The story is too well known. No; we bought it for His Royal Highness the Grand Duke of Zweitenbourg. It is—or he thinks it is—a portrait of one of his Spanish ancestors. His agent tells me that it is the only known work of a remarkable young Spaniard who was soon afterwards killed at the siege of Barcelona, early in the eighteenth century. They are not even sure of his name. The Grand Duke was most anxious to get it. For years we have been sending him semiannual bulletins on Monsieur Acton’s health and financial condition.”