# Ainslee's Magazine/A Pupil of Raphael

   A connoisseur and collector of rare became for a while the dupe of the artistic world. But his charity to his deceiver brought him some of the best things life offers.
A Pupil of Raphael
By Ethel Watts Mumford Author of “Aurore”
ON a narrow panel an artist of long ago had left the record of his genius in the portrayal of St. Agnes, a slim little figure with rippled gold hair held about her, garmentwise, by frail white fingers. The composition was crowded with Cæsarean officials in fifteenth-century costume, parading amidst Renaissance architectural perspectives. Yet that small, sad face in its frame of curls dominated the picture like a point of light.
Vincent Lake sighed with satisfaction as he restudied the curious signature, a seal of humility and admiration: “A Pupil of Raphael.”
There was something deeply touching in the signature which left the painter nameless to the greater glory of the master. The critic's heart warmed to that vanished loyalty; he leaned the picture against the wall, and withdrew across the room to squint at its perfect “values.” Then he was torn from his contemplation by the arrival of his crony, Valentine Moldino, the collector.
“What! Another 'Pupil of Raphael'?” his colleague exclaimed. “Mother of God! What a jewel! What line, what composition, what color! A pity the surface is so weathered; however, the tone is golden beyond belief. My dear confrère, I congratulate you; I envy you! Another—that makes seven panels in all, and all of a size. Surely they must have formed some part of a chapel. Yet you have found them in three different cities, Ravenna, Florence, Verona. It is amazing that in all these years no one but you should happen upon them. It can only be that their hiding place has been recently discovered, and it falls to your lot! This one, of course, you will have photographed as appendix to your pamphlet.”
“Of course, it is of the utmost importance—the utmost,” Vincent Lake admitted proudly. “The 'Pupil of Raphael' is, without a doubt, the most important discovery of the last twenty years. I do not except the locating of the Cardoza Fra Angelico of Von Meyers' Rembrandt.”
Moldino nodded agreement.
“It is most curious that you, who give this great gift to Italian art, should be an American. One thinks of Americans as mere purchasers of antiquities, not as connoisseurs.”
Lake preened himself, for he was young and enthusiastic, and praise was sweet.
“This, I think, my friend, will give me the assured position which will enable me to approach Mr. Wilmath. It is a shame that his collection should be so misattributed, so badly arranged. And yet, one does not approach the greatest buyer in the world and tell him that, unless one is the recognized authority.”
“You underestimate your fame, my dear boy,” Moldino assured him genially, as he again approached the panel and lightly touched its surface with a reverent finger. “But you are right, perhaps, to wait until your pamphlets are published before you go to this 'milliard' countryman of yours, The 'Pupil of Raphael' is, indeed, a world find.”
Vincent crossed from the long window overlooking the steep descent of Fiesole, dome-dotted Florence, and the winding Arno. He hesitated a moment, then turned to his friend with suppressed boyishness.
“I've got to tell you,” he announced, taking the older man by the shoulders and whirling him toward the light, “and yet I'd sworn to myself I'd say nothing until I knew positively; but I can't keep the secret. I am on the track of still another!”
“No!” Moldino sat down on a Savonarola chair so hard that it creaked ominously, and he rose again hastily in deference to age.
“Yes,” Lake continued, his eager face flushing with excitement, “in Verona, I am not sure, of course, but from the very slight description of the subject, the number of figures, the architectural background, I have a hope. Think of it! The eighth panel! I am going now; my bag is packed, my conveyance is ordered.”
“Let me not detain you.” The little man nervously began gathering his gloves, hat, and walking stick. “Do you have special stars of fortune in your sky? Eight panels! Mother of Heaven! Believe me, my boy, all my good wishes go with you. Why, soon you will be a millionaire yourself; fifty thousand lire from Barbaroni for the 'St. Luke;' thirty thousand for the 'St. Stephen.' This 'St. Agnes' should surely go to one of the great collections. What fame and what fortune! Addio, my favored of the gods!”
Moldino saw him to the ancient hack which jolted presently into the narrow, tilted street, and he waved farewell,
Vincent Lake gave the direction to the driver, but halfway to his destination he glanced at his watch. His subconscious desire had contrived to allow him the extra quarter of an hour he strove to surprise himself with.
He addressed the cabman almost apologetically:
“We have time. You may stop on the way at thirty-seven in the Street of the Birds of St. Francis.”
Obediently the man drew up before the carved stone entrance, and Vincent hurried past the liveried porter with a familiar sign of greeting to his salute. He ran up the wide stairs of the inner court and breathlessly inquired for the comtessa. He was ushered at once into the little salon, and the lady, with a word of welcome, came forward. He was halted by her sheer beauty. Her presence always stirred him, as did a masterpiece, and yet, it was personal, magic, human. He felt her Italian father in her eyes, her lavishness, her romance, and her American mother in the feeling of home and of understanding which always welled in him. Alas, that fortune should have placed her so far above him! “The beautiful widow of the Street of the Birds of St. Francis,” as she was known to the teeming life of the lower market; “the wonderful Comtessa Berondi,” as she was hailed in the palazzos of the aristocrats; “Margaret Colgan's lovely daughter,” as she was greeted in Newport; but it was as “Margot,” his friend, that she met him, overcoming his sudden diffidence.
“You are early for tea, mon cher,” she said; “but none the less welcome. Come.”
“I ran in to say I'm off for a day or so. I decided suddenly.”
“For long?” she asked.
“I—I hope not,” he said, his heart in his eyes. “It may be that I shall have good fortune, that I shall have something to show you when I come back.”
“Then come back soon,” she invited. “I always love the things you bring for me to see; they are worth while.”
“They are my only excuse for boring you with my poor self,” he replied. “It has been good to have this glimpse of you to take to Verona. I wanted to explain personally why I cannot be with you and your friends, but my train——”
“Ah, I understand.” She laughed indifferently. As he broke into further excuses, she handed him over to the footman, who conducted him to the street. He had almost forgotten the reason of his journey when he came in sight of the station.
Arrived at Verona, he went straight to the hotel, whose friendly proprietor had written him word that a man had called there, seeking “the gentleman who bought panels,” and desiring to show him one in his house by the Roman bridge. Yes, the proprietor had the address. He handed Vincent a greasy slip of paper on which the directions were written, and, with joyous excitement, the art lover set out upon his quest.
In the doorway of the narrow house that corresponded to the given street and number sat a fat, elderly woman, busily combing the matted locks of a protesting urchin. She desisted as the visitor addressed her, and rose agitatedly to her feet.
“Oh, gradissimo signor!” she exclaimed. “We had ceased to look for you in the matter of the 'St. Sebastian.' Alas, it was sold but the day before yesterday!”
Sold! Gone! That very obvious contingency had, somehow, not presented itself to Vincent. His disappointment was so keen that the fat woman clucked sympathetically, and expressed her many regrets that the gentleman should have had his walk for nothing. Had they known the signor would come, of course, her husband would not have sold. It had been given for nothing, but they had needed the money—the landlord was hard. It was too bad, but perhaps if the signor would go to the house, the third down on the second alley opening from the market place, opposite the flower stall of Rosa Coras, she might still find it. Antonio Vechi, he who prowled the city in search of things for the antique dealers, had bought the picture and taken it with him in his pushcart.
With hasty thanks, the collector was again upon the trail. Palpitating with anticipation, he entered the joyous square of the market place, with its frescoed houses and gay-striped awnings, its carved wooden balconies dripping flowers, and its nooks of deep-blue shadow, revealing narrow streets where all sorts of odds and ends not announced by the raucous bawling of the market women were to be found.
After much questioning and several false alarms, he located Rosa Coras' flower stall, whence she directed him to the entrance of the house, where, hidden in one of the myriad tiny rooms, partitioned and repartitioned in the vast, ancient halls of the Scaligeri, the possessor of a priceless “Pupil of Raphael” confined its unappreciated beauty.
Before a door on the second landing, outside of which was heaped an assortment of battered ironwork, worm-eaten carvings, and crumpled canvases, Vincent paused, and read the ill-lettered name, “Antonio Vechi, collector for antiquaries.” The last word seemed a threat. No antiquary, however uninformed, could fail to realize the beauty of a “Pupil of Raphael.”
An aged man, parchment-dried and lean, met him in the dimly lighted shop. To Vincent's eager questions he gave doleful reply.
Oh, yes, the painted panel, so strangely signed. He could not afford to buy things of such value. He had acted only as purchasing agent for the collector who lived opposite the first Scala Tomb. Four hundred lire had he paid for the blessed “St. Sebastian.”
Vincent gulped down his chagrin and, with fevered haste, fled across the square.
He must find the palazzo of Gian Ferro, the collector. Fate favored him. The first doorway he entered proved to be that of the house he, sought. Ferro occupied the whole of the first and second floors, and proved to be a replica of the redoubtable Don Quixote, belied by the shrewdness of his eyes.
He welcomed his fellow collector with cordiality.
The panel? Ah, yes, a little gem! For some time he had been trying to buy it, but he happened to be on ill terms with the owners, who were, in fact, tenants of his, and he had been forced to employ the services of a go-between. But it had been worth while. The gentleman should judge for himself.
Ferro opened a Venetian marriage chest covered with faded crimson velvet and, unwrapping covering after covering of tattered silk, produced the long-sought treasure.
Lake sighed with delight. What unique beauty of composition! What wealth of imagination and profuse, yet subjected detail! How sympathetic and reverent the treatment of the slight, patrician figure of Sebastian! The uplifted, glorified face, wherein the soul rose triumphant over the body's pain! All the loveliness both of feeling and technique which characterized a “Pupil of Raphael” were there.
“Yes, very interesting,” said Lake, trying to control the emotion in his voice. Would his esteemed confrère consent to part with it? He understood the price had been four hundred lire. He was prepared to double that sum.
Ferro rolled horrified eyes heavenward. What! He, a collector, to speak thus! Was the price paid ever any criterion of value? Eight hundred lire for a “Pupil of Raphael!” Perhaps the gentleman did not know that very eminent critics, indeed, had discovered the glories of this obscure master's work. Even the Roman newspapers had printed paragraphs!
Vincent was for once annoyed by the widespread attention attracted by his pamphlets. He countered by calling Ferro's attention to the insignificant size of the panel and the dilapidation of the wood. The argument became heated. But after an hour's bargaining the panel changed hands for five thousand lire. Ferro accompanied the purchaser to the bank to collect his money, and Vincent bore his prize to his rooms in the hotel.
He realized suddenly that since his early morning chocolate he had eaten nothing. He descended to the café, and, after giving his order, tilted himself comfortably back in his chair, a feeling of complete satisfaction filling both body and mind. The eighth panel was his! Lost in happy abstraction, he did not notice the approach of a slender youth until, with soft accents, he had twice craved his attention. Then he woke to the boy's presence, and smiled benignly.
“What can I do for you?” he inquired.
“You are Vincent Lake?” the young man asked eagerly.
Lake nodded.
“I am.”
“It is you who have bought so many panel pictures by 'A Pupil of Raphael?'”
Vincent's heart jumped, and he sat erect.
“Yes,” he answered, and waved his hand to one of the unoccupied green seats. The visitor sat down, laying a flat package before him on the table. His face was flushed and his fingers shook as he untied the knotted cord. Lake watched him in silence as he drew forth a wooden panel, and, turning it over, revealed its painted surface. It was a vision of St. Catherine, her triumphant foot upon the fatal wheel, surrounded by a cloud of worshiping angels, backgrounded by Roman guards in slashed hose and laced jetkins. Vincent exclaimed. Once more perfection of composition and treatment met his eyes, the incomparable lovely line, the unmistakable attributes of a “Pupil of Raphael!” He leaned forward and grasped the picture, turning it to the light. On one corner the newspaper adhered. The paint was still wet! He looked hastily at the wood of the panel. It was new. His blood seemed suddenly to recede to some remote part of his being. He could not speak.
As in a dream he heard a voice, saw the full red lips before him move, and realized the meaning of the words.
“Pardon a poor artist. Pardon for one who had to lie for daily bread. I—am the 'Pupil of Raphael.'”
Before him in a flash Vincent Lake saw Ridicule, with a thousand tongues, ready to lash him forever. He saw himself the fool of Europe, the butt of the whole artistic world! He saw himself derided, scorned by the woman he adored. But love of art gave him a supreme moment. Ashen faced and with lips which stiffened, he compelled the words:
“Then you are a great genius.”
The boy dropped his head on his arms and burst into tears.
Vincent fingered the panel, trying to put order into the chaos of his feelings, trying, above all, to be just.
“Why do you come to tell me?” he asked at length.
A tear-stained face was lifted to his question.
“Because before all the world you have praised my work, and I want to become a great painter. Yet, what can I do? Those who will buy say to me, 'Imitate the old masters: Raphaels, Ghirlandaios, Vincis.' 'But,' I say, 'if I do this, I shall surely be found out.' So—I am—the 'Pupil of Raphael.' When I heard how you, a rich, famous patron of art, had seen my work, I said: 'I will go. I will take him a panel, not such as I make to deceive, painted on ancient wood, with colors well sun-baked and cracked and smoked and water-stained, but one on new wood, with the paint still fresh upon it. Then he will know that what I say is true. Then he will say to me, “You are a genius? and I shall work with him, for him, It will not be a pittance, but a fortune, that we shall gain together.”
Vincent Lake rose.
“I must think,” he said dully. “Will you come to see me to-morrow? And will you leave this, your latest, with me till then?”
With a frightened look the young man pushed back his chair.
“You are ill,” he murmured.
“Never mind,” Lake answered. “You are a genius, and—I salute you.”
Taking the panel under his arm, he bowed gravely and left the remorseful “Pupil of Raphael” at the green table, on which the waiter was depositing, with much ceremony, Lake's delayed repast.
Alone in his room, the picture propped on the dressing table before him, the eminent art critic faced the vision of a very black and dismal future. The inevitable mirth which must ring through all Europe already sounded in his ears, and one silvery laugh which hurt him more than all. He realized that he must at once face each individual buyer of the bogus panels and return the purchase price. That he might bribe the youth to silence never entered his head. His absolute devotion to art barred the thought that must have come to a less scrupulous soul. Before him lay his path, thorny and painful, but devoid of pitfalls. He could see every turning of the arduous road, anticipate each bruise and cut. But even as his mental eyes dwelt on the weary way before him, his physical vision rested upon the pictured St. Catherine, rising triumphant from her martyrdom. The lovely sweep of her form, the gracious presence of the angels, had a soothing effect. He found himself lost in admiration. Here was the mystic arresting call of the masterpiece. His whole being thrilled. Tears came to his eyes, tears of stinging joy.
This inspired boy should have his chance. He, Vincent, the dupe, would unhesitatingly herald this new talent. From the ruins of the critic's little temple of fame the true creative genius might build his royal monument. With this determination came a sense of well-being, of harmony with all things. He was as free and clean as a soul emerging purified from the smelting fires of purgatory. His self-abnegation was complete.
This exaltation upheld him in the bitter days which followed, when, having settled his protégé in Rome and confided him to the tuition of one of the greatest living painters, he betook himself to the purchasers of the bogus panels. He then called in the just-completed pamphlets, and solemnly superintended their destruction.
Grimly he packed away his repurchased saints, and turned to the hardest task of all—his return to Florence.
Moldino met him with almost tearful sympathy. Sarini, the dealer of the Piazza Vecchia, was openly delighted. Watson, the English collector, was sarcastic. Laurenz, the correspondent, was pleased to be humorous; but the lady of the Street of the Birds of St. Francis, whom he feared most of all, astonished him by a sweet deference and an almost affectionate welcome. Her charming, soothing hospitality eased his tired heart and mind, until it dawned upon him that what she felt for him was pity, angelic, heavenly pity, but none the less pity. Forthwith he ceased to accept her invitations, and absented himself, more lonely, more rawly sensitive than ever. She sought him out, unbending her dignity, casting hauteur and reserve to the winds. Still, to him her encompassing tenderness was only pity for the clown, the world's fool, tagged and belled. So might a great lady of the olden days protect and comfort the jester whom the court jeered and flayed.
It was with relief that he received a dispatch from America, demanding his instant return on business. He cabled his immediate sailing, and fled like a thief. In the land of his birth he no longer felt self-conscious and shamed, and, as if to compensate for the touch of his heart, which turned all to lead, the touch of his fingers turned all to gold. But the passing days seemed lonely. He promised himself he would not return to Florence, but six months from the time of his departure he found himself in Rome. It was Rome, of course, for was he not the patron of a genius, and must not his protégé be looked after? He came unheralded, he even considered an assumed name, but he discarded the idea.
On the very day of his arrival Vincent Lake sought out the cause of his downfall in a small studio near the senate,
The young man's gratitude had been so vociferous as to be embarrassing, and Vincent counted upon a hilariously delighted greeting. But on opening the door leading to the little court, he beheld the “pupil” in an attitude of despair, staring at a canvas with an almost suicidal expression.
As Vincent called his name, the boy rose slowly, unsurprised, unrejoiced. He spoke as one detached, as if no comings or goings could any more have significance.
“It is of no use!” he said dully. “Oh, gradissimo signor, I am worse than nothing! I cannot draw; I cannot paint from the model; I cannot learn!” Tears came to his eyes. “It burns my heart to tell you, oh, my benefactor! But you must see for yourself. Look!”
Dramatically he turned the canvas. Lake stepped back amazed. He could not believe his senses. The drawing was coarse, the color crude, the pose conventional. Where was the rhythmic sense of line, the balanced, yet unstudied beauty of composition, the luminous color scheme of a “Pupil of Raphael?”
“Alas!” wailed Giovanni. “I shall never paint. Of myself, I am nothing! Only a copyist—only a copyist! I must measure and measure and rule and cross rule. I cannot see otherwise. I have prayed the Holy Virgin to help me, but she will not, because I have been a liar!”
Vincent pounced upon the youth and shook him.
“But the pictures,” he panted, “the panels I bought!”
“I copied them!” sobbed Giovanni. “I didn't tell any one that I didn't do it myself. I wanted them to think that I did. The real ones are in the cow barn of my father, that once was the refectory of a monastery.”
“Take me there,” cried Vincent; “now—now! You have saved me, Giovanni, saved me! I'll give you an annuity. You can rule and line every picture in the world. Quick! Send away the model. Get your hat!”
He flung a coin to the woman, dashed into the studio, snatched up a hat, which he jammed on his companion's head, dragged the now-frightened youth into the street and a cab, and began at once the journey to Verona. They arrived at a pallid hour of dawn. There was no pause. While horses were being backed into an ancient vehicle for their service, Vincent permitted Giovanni to scald himself with an overhot cup of coffee. For his part, he could eat nothing. Once more they were in motion. They crossed the river by the Roman bridge and drove straight into the hill country. The early sunlight was gilding the distant towers of the city when they paused before a dilapidated farmhouse. The carriage stopped.
“Quickly, quickly!” begged Lake,
Giovanni, welcomed by a half dozen mongrel dogs, ran ahead leading the way. He disappeared into the doorway of a long, low, stone house. Lake followed into the purple gloom. The sound of shifting bodies, low mooing, the smell of hay, chewed cud, and warm milk will remain fixed upon his mind forever, for in that instant he beheld a little protected space by the farther wall, and there, in their casings of decayed walnut paneling, gleamed a row of pictured saints! There they were: St. Catherine, St. Sebastian, St. Lawrence, St. Agnes! How well he knew each line and curve, yet he had never seen their beauty before. He had known but a pale reflection of the true glory.
The sound of weeping at last penetrated his ecstatic absorption.
“Oh!” cried Giovanni, “if I could paint! If I could only paint! I have knelt to them, every one, as I copied them, and prayed and prayed to St. Jerome and St. Stephen, to St. Elizabeth, to St. Luke, the patron saint of artists—to every one have I prayed as I painted, and they have not heard me. When I was a child, I used to come here and look and look till the tears of happiness blinded me. When I grew older, it was I who built that bar across the stable to protect them. I kept away the cattle and the dirt. I kept it as one keeps a chapel. I have worshiped here!”
Sobs shook him as he knelt on the earthen floor, lifting his hands in prayer.
“Oh, beautiful St. Luke, I have lied, I have sinned, but because I loved I sinned. Now I know I am of no use—no use—a hand to the plow, that is all!”
“Oh, no!” said Vincent gently. “Oh, no; don't say that! Why, you saved them—saved them from destruction, every one. Where now would be all their beauty if you had not built the barrier? If you had not defended them? It was for that the love of color and line was put into your soul, You have been a faithful acolyte in the great temple. Why, if you did nothing else as long as you lived, yet have you done enough.”
Giovanni dried his tears with the back of his hand.
“It is true, what you say, signor,” he said simply.
Vincent Lake rushed back to Florence. Now, now, indeed, all should rejoice in his good fortune. The public should be invited to view the priceless panels, this exquisite legacy from the past, the belated crowning of a prince among painters, the humble artist whose name was forever to remain unknown. Vincent Lake and the pupil of Raphael would together receive the homage of the people. And first of all, the lady of the Street of the Birds of St. Francis must give him her smile of congratulation; but, he learned to his chagrin, she had left suddenly for Rome.
Disappointed but undaunted, Vincent engaged the most popular exhibition galleries. He had the walls hung with soft gray. To each panel a half side wall was allotted, and soft, well-directed electric lights were placed for dark days and evenings. The exhibition was to last a week. He called for interviews, and gave them. He advertised the exhibition with much costly space, and himself designed the poster placed at the door. But the public did not respond. Day and night the galleries solicited attendance; the public was elsewhere. True, he had his little hour of triumph over Sarini, sourly congratulatory; Watson, venomously eating humble pie, and Laurens' compulsory praising. He had the pleasure of Moldino's ardent handshake, and the knowledge that he had made good with a true friend.
But the public, the great public, before whom he was to be vindicated—the public he had in such good faith misled—where was it? Outside in the streets and cafés. Life hummed in barracks and factories and places of amusement, utterly unmindful of the master pupil and his showman critic.
Lake was puzzled, then dazed by this unaccountable isolation. Was it possible that the public was not interested? Was it possible that he had never been a laughingstock, and that he was not now a popular hero, reflecting glory on a grateful city?
Strange thoughts began to move in the established order of the house of his brain, wrecking much of its cherished bric-a-brac, raising much antique dust, and letting in light to traditional corners. Vincent sat in the great, bare room, looked at the gaping door, and pondered.
The week was almost gone. The lonely exhibitor sat before the “St. Agnes,” lost in contemplation. But it was no longer the pathetic little figure of the girl saint that he saw. He was thinking of the angel of pity from whom he had fled in his mortification. He saw not the golden fleece of St. Agnes, but the black hair and jet eyes of Margaretta—Margot—her oval face and frank smile. Not a word from her. She might have written a line of congratulation, a word to tell him that she was glad. But she had flown. Like the birds of St. Francis, she was gone.
The sound of a step in the corridor, the voice of the doorman giving a direction, roused him, and he turned to face the presence of his dream. She came forward quickly. She was smiling, her hand was stretched out to him.
“Silly!” she cried in her sweet, tender accents. “What made you leave Rome so suddenly? I meant to surprise you. Bad one, not to let me know of your return, to let me find it out from the papers.”
Wordlessly he took her hand, while his heart turned heart springs in his breast.
“And I've brought some one to see the panels,” she whispered. She turned from him to a giant of a man, who stood silent, hat in hand, in the doorway. “This is Mr. Lake, my friend. This is your whole, and my half compatriot, Mr. Wilmath.”
The visitor advanced, holding out a huge, capable hand.
“I'm gladder than I can tell you,” Lake stammered. “I—I think you'll find them worth looking at.”
The big man glanced at the pictures with an approving nod.
“Haven't time now. Want to make an appointment with you to talk business about my collection.”
Vincent could not believe his ears, but mechanically he spoke:
“The finest private collection in the world.”
“Yes, I guess it is,” Mr. Wilmath admitted; “but it needs expert overhauling. I heard about that pupil-of-Raphael business.” He glanced at the comtessa as he spoke. “So I tried to find you in Rome. You'd ducked, so I followed you here. I'd made up my mind you were the man I wanted. I thought I'd better see you personally. Come to-morrow morning; we'll make terms.”
Vincent Lake gulped.
“I'm sure I'm very grateful to the pupil of Raphael for bringing me to your notice. I may have found him, but he's certainly put me on the map.”
“Oh, yes, of course, I may want 'em. I'll look 'em over later. Naturally I want an expert, but the woods are full of them, you see. I've got to have an honest man. I've been bunked enough. What got me was the way you owned up and paid up, and the decent way you treated that faker.” He was edging toward the exit. “Comtessa, I take it you want to talk with your friend. I've got to go. Sorry! See you to-morrow, Mr. Lake. At your service.” He bent above the lady's hand and strode out.
Too dazed to speak, Vincent continued to stare in silence at the smiling face of his benefactress. As in a dream he felt her hand upon his arm and heard her voice:
“Silly! Wake up! Did you hear what your—what our great man said? “What got me was the way you owned up and paid up, and the decent way you treated that faker.' Well, that—that's what got me.”
And the doorman, coming in to switch on the electric lights, tiptoed out again.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1940, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 83 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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