"
Wilfer moved uneasily.
"Beautiful pictures," continued the mocking voice, "all by Rubens and
Raphael and Titian. I shouldn't be surprised if that was one of yours I
saw at the Countess of Merivale's to-day, the 'Portrait of a gentleman,'
sold for 300 pounds. There was a warranty with it, signed, sealed and
delivered by a Mr. Johann Wilfer."
"I didn't, it wasn't," the man stuttered, his face almost green in hue,
his voice trembling with anger and fear.
Mr. Vermont smiled. He had his man safe and sound.
"Who the fiend are you?" commenced Wilfer, recovering himself; but
Vermont's smooth voice interrupted him.
"I was right, I see! What a strange coincidence, Mr. Wilfer, that I
should see your really admirable Rubens in the afternoon, and run
against--or perhaps I should say, knock you down--in the evening."
Mr. Wilfer was goaded to desperation.
"Look here," he almost shouted, "I don't care if you're the old 'un
himself; but that's enough of your jaw. What's your game anyhow? S'pose
you did see me in a pub at Canterbury along of a young party, s'pose I
am an artist, an' I did sell an old master, that ain't no business of
yours; that don't give you the right to knock me down or interfere with
me, so now then!"
"Finished?" inquired Vermont, pleasantly.
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