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“You can go to the devil for all I care,” said Philip, “or even to Pittsburgh!”

He saw the waiter bearing down upon him with the imitation cocktail, and moved to meet it. The millionaire, fearing the reporter would escape him, hastily changed his tone. He spoke with effective resignation.

“However, since you’ve learned so much,” he said, “I’ll tell you the whole of it. I don’t want the fact garbled, for it is of international importance. Do you know what a Velasquez is?”

“Do you?” asked Philip.

The millionaire smiled tolerantly.

“I think I do,” he said. “And to prove it, I shall tell you something that will be news to you. I have just bought a Velasquez that I am going to place in my art museum. It is worth three hundred thousand dollars.”

Philip accepted the cocktail the waiter presented. It was quite as bad as he had expected.

“Now, I shall tell you something,” he said, “that will be news to you. You are not buying a Velasquez. It is no more a Velasquez than this hair oil is a real cocktail. It is a bad copy, worth a few dollars.”

“How dare you!” shouted Faust. “Are you mad?”

The face of the German turned crimson with rage.

“Who is this insolent one?” he sputtered.

“I will make you a sporting proposition,” said Philip. “You can take it, or leave it. You two will get into a taxi. You will drive to this man’s studio in Tate Street. You will find your Velasquez is there and not on its way to Liverpool. And you will find one exactly like it, and a dozen other ‘old masters’ half-finished. I’ll bet you a hundred pounds I’m right! And I’ll bet this man a hundred pounds that he DOESN’T DARE TAKE YOU TO HIS STUDIO!”

“Indeed, I will not,” roared the German. “It would be to insult myself.”

“It would be an easy way to earn a hundred pounds, too,” said Philip.

“How dare you insult the Baron?” demanded Faust. “What makes you think–“

“I don’t think, I know!” said Philip. “For the price of a taxi-cab fare to Tate Street, you win a hundred pounds.”

“We will all three go at once,” cried the German. “My car is outside. Wait here. I will have it brought to the door?”

Faust protested indignantly.

“Do not disturb yourself, Baron,” he said; “just because a fresh reporter–“

But already the German had reached the hall. Nor did he stop there. They saw him, without his hat, rush into Piccadilly, spring into a taxi, and shout excitedly to the driver. The next moment he had disappeared.

“That’s the last you’ll see of him,” said Philip.

“His actions are certainly peculiar,” gasped the millionaire. “He did not wait for us. He didn’t even wait for his hat! I think, after all, I had better go to Tate Street.”

“Do so,” said Philip, “and save yourself three hundred thousand dollars, and from the laughter of two continents. You’ll find me here at lunch. If I’m wrong, I’ll pay you a hundred pounds.”

“You should come with me,” said Faust. “It is only fair to yourself.”

“I’ll take your word for what you find in the studio,” said Philip. “I cannot go. This is my busy day.”

Without further words, the millionaire collected his hat and stick, and, in his turn, entered a taxi-cab and disappeared.

Philip returned to the Louis Quatorze chair and lit a cigarette. Save for the two elderly gentlemen on the sofa, the lounge was still empty, and his reflections were undisturbed. He shook his head sadly.

“Surely,” Philip thought, “the French chap was right who said words were given us to conceal our thoughts. What a strange world it would be if every one possessed my power. Deception would be quite futile and lying would become a lost art. I wonder,” he mused cynically, “is any one quite honest? Does any one speak as he thinks and think as he speaks?”

At once came a direct answer to his question. The two elderly gentlemen had risen and, before separating, had halted a few feet from him.