She does not wish the painter to know that she is the purchaser."
"Who is the painter?"
The dealer paused a moment. "I don't know that I ought to tell you."
"Oh, come, Jacob. You know, if I take the trouble, I can easily find out."
"That is true. You will probably see the picture standing here for some months, as she wishes me to keep it for her. Baring, the American, is the painter. You remember his picture in the Salon last year?"
"Of course I do, and I know the man a little—a tall fellow, not bad-looking, with a red beard. So she does not want him to know that she buys his picture, and is content to pay you your 'pourboire,' to keep it a secret?" Here he laughed again. "Curious—very curious! What can be her reason? And how comes it that a girl living in a pension can afford to buy pictures at all?"
The dealer shrugged his shoulders. "The English are all very queer. No accounting for what they do."
"True; but this passes ordinary eccentricity. I have a mind to go to the pension and find out more about her."
"I hope you will not, for at least a fortnight. Monsieur Melchior. You will probably spoil the whole transaction if you do. I should not have told you. If you betray me, it will be a breach of confidence. The young lady will recognize you—will guess that I have told you. The whole business may be ruined. You have been a good patron of mine, Monsieur Melchior, and———"
"Well, well, say no more about it, Jacob. Until the
