Douglas went into the red drawing-room, one of the suite of rooms dating from the early seventeenth century which occupied the western front of the house. As he entered, he saw two men at the farther end closely examining a large Constable, of the latest “palette-knife” period, which hung to the left of the fire-place. One of the men was short, very stout, with a fringe of grey hair round his bald head, a pair of very shrewd and sparkling black eyes, a thick nose, full lips, and a double chin. He wore spectacles, and was using in addition, a magnifying glass with which he was examining the picture. Beside him stood a thin, slightly-bearded man, cadaverous in colour, who, with his hands in his pockets, was holding forth in a nonchalant, rather patronising voice.
Both of them turned at Douglas’s entrance, surveying the son of the house with an evident and eager curiosity.
“You are, I suppose, Mr. Douglas Falloden?” said the short man, speaking perfect English, though with a slight German accent. “Your father is not able to see us?”
“My father will be pleased to see you, when you have been the round of the pictures,” said Douglas stiffly. “He deputes me to show you what we have.”
“I expect we know what you have almost as well as you. Let me introduce Mr. Miklos.”
Douglas bowed, so did the younger man. He was, as Douglas already knew, a Hungarian by birth, formerly an official in one of the museums of Budapest, then at Munich, and now an “expert” at large, greatly in demand as the adviser of wealthy men entering the field of art collecting, and prepared to pay almost anything for success in one of the most difficult and fascinating _chasses_ that exist.
“I see you have given this room almost entirely to English pictures,” said Mr. Miklos politely. “A fine Constable!”—he pointed to the picture they had just been considering—“but not, I think, entirely by the master?”
[Illustration: Herr Schwarz was examining a picture with a magnifying glass when Falloden entered]
“My great-grandfather bought it from Constable himself,” said Douglas. “It has never been disputed by any one.”
Mr. Miklos did not reply, but he shook his head with a slight smile, and walked away towards a Turner, a fine landscape of the middle period, hanging close to the Constable. He peered into it short-sightedly, with his strong glasses.