Polperro at his hotel, and were introduced to his wife, a dainty
little woman, in whom we affected not to recognise that arch Madame
Picardet or that simple White Heather. The Doctor talked charmingly
(as usual) about art--what a well-informed rascal he was, to be
sure!--and Sir Charles expressed some interest in the supposed
Rembrandt. Our new friend was delighted; we could see by his
well-suppressed eagerness of tone that he knew us at once for
probable purchasers. He would run up to town next day, he said, and
bring down the portrait. And in effect, when Charles and I took our
wonted places in the Pullman next morning, on our way up to the
half-yearly meeting of Cloetedorp Golcondas, there was our Doctor,
leaning back in his arm-chair as if the car belonged to him. Charles
gave me an expressive look. "Does it in style," he whispered,
"doesn't he? Takes it out of my five thousand; or discounts the
amount he means to chouse me of with his spurious Rembrandt."
Arrived in town, we went to work at once. We set a private detective
from Marvillier's to watch our friend; and from him we learned that
the so-called Doctor dropped in for a picture that day at a dealer's
in the West-end (I suppress the name, having a judicious fear of
the law of libel ever before my eyes), a dealer who was known to be
mixed up before then in several shady or disreputable transactions.
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