The Coin Of Dionysius
by
It was eight o’clock at night and raining, scarcely a time when a business so limited in its clientele as that of a coin dealer could hope to attract any customer, but a light was still showing in the small shop that bore over its window the name of Baxter, and in the even smaller office at the back the proprietor himself sat reading the latest Pall Mall. His enterprise seemed to be justified, for presently the door bell gave its announcement, and throwing down his paper Mr. Baxter went forward.
As a matter of fact the dealer had been expecting someone and his manner as he passed into the shop was unmistakably suggestive of a caller of importance. But at the first glance towards his visitor the excess of deference melted out of his bearing, leaving the urbane, self-possessed shopman in the presence of the casual customer.
“Mr. Baxter, I think?” said the latter. He had laid aside his dripping umbrella and was unbuttoning overcoat and coat to reach an inner pocket. “You hardly remember me, I suppose? Mr. Carlyle–two years ago I took up a case for you–“
“To be sure. Mr. Carlyle, the private detective–“
“Inquiry agent,” corrected Mr. Carlyle precisely.
“Well,” smiled Mr. Baxter, “for that matter I am a coin dealer and not an antiquarian or a numismatist. Is there anything in that way that I can do for you?”
“Yes,” replied his visitor; “it is my turn to consult you.” He had taken a small wash-leather bag from the inner pocket and now turned something carefully out upon the counter. “What can you tell me about that?”
The dealer gave the coin a moment’s scrutiny.
“There is no question about this,” he replied. “It is a Sicilian tetradrachm of Dionysius.”
“Yes, I know that–I have it on the label out of the cabinet. I can tell you further that it’s supposed to be one that Lord Seastoke gave two hundred and fifty pounds for at the Brice sale in ’94.”
“It seems to me that you can tell me more about it than I can tell you,” remarked Mr. Baxter. “What is it that you really want to know?”
“I want to know,” replied Mr. Carlyle, “whether it is genuine or not.”
“Has any doubt been cast upon it?”
“Certain circumstances raised a suspicion–that is all.”
The dealer took another look at the tetradrachm through his magnifying glass, holding it by the edge with the careful touch of an expert. Then he shook his head slowly in a confession of ignorance.
“Of course I could make a guess–“
“No, don’t,” interrupted Mr. Carlyle hastily. “An arrest hangs on it and nothing short of certainty is any good to me.”
“Is that so, Mr. Carlyle?” said Mr. Baxter, with increased interest. “Well, to be quite candid, the thing is out of my line. Now if it was a rare Saxon penny or a doubtful noble I’d stake my reputation on my opinion, but I do very little in the classical series.”
Mr. Carlyle did not attempt to conceal his disappointment as he returned the coin to the bag and replaced the bag in the inner pocket.
“I had been relying on you,” he grumbled reproachfully. “Where on earth am I to go now?”
“There is always the British Museum.”
“Ah, to be sure, thanks. But will anyone who can tell me be there now?”
“Now? No fear!” replied Mr. Baxter. “Go round in the morning–“
“But I must know to-night,” explained the visitor, reduced to despair again. “To-morrow will be too late for the purpose.”
Mr. Baxter did not hold out much encouragement in the circumstances.
“You can scarcely expect to find anyone at business now,” he remarked. “I should have been gone these two hours myself only I happened to have an appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own time.” Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr. Baxter’s right eye. “Offmunson he’s called, and a bright young pedigree-hunter has traced his descent from Offa, King of Mercia. So he–quite naturally–wants a set of Offas as a sort of collateral proof.”