Withdraw it? . . .
When I ran to the gate at sunset to hear Prince’s sequel, it was with
high heart, for I felt that the day of the lady agent had waned. Martha
was joyfully trolling a somber tune in the kitchen; ahead of me was the
radiant vision of a new roof, a basket laden for Mrs. Petty, and sticks
innumerable in the woodshed. The vision materialized, when Prince
gravely placed a bank-book in my hand. His measures had been summary.
He went first to Penwick’s hotel, and called him up to say that his
estimate of Miss Legree’s antiques was too low; she had sold them.
“Oh, I am sorry! After all, he was a relative,” I said, regretfully.
“Stick to the past tense, please,” said Prince, briefly. “His language
over the wire wasn’t publishable. He is safer at a distance, and I
implied as much.”
“And—Dantrè?” I ventured.
“Banks conjure by that name. You did a wonderful stroke of business,
Enid—for a woman.”
Had I? I hid a smile.
“Dantrè is a Richard Burton for wandering, and an infallible expert.
Collectors swear by him. I heard an odd thing about the man today. It
seems that Dantrè is not his name. His father was a notorious criminal
speculator, and ruined many before he served his time in the
penitentiary, Dantrè is equally keen on the trail of tricksters in
collecting, but the disgrace made a recluse of him. He has gone again,
and his agent was placing the Fierienti on exhibition today. I’ve no
doubt that he turned up from the end of the earth just to get even with—”
Prince hesitated. “You see, Enid, I remembered the name of the collector
who bought old Mrs. Mace’s Romney. I hated to tell you. It was Cary
Penwick.”
But memory swung back to a firelit hour and a dark, listening face upon a
slender hand, with two swastikas—
“Oh, I am glad it wasn’t Dantrè!” I breathed to the spring sunset.
_Virginia Woodward Cloud_.