“Oh, but I should!” I cried, happily. “A dark-eyed boy with his hair in his eyes, and a brain set on adventure. . . . But your voice does not in the least sound like you. Do come out and let me see you.”
He assured me that such had been his intention, but an official banquet and a directors’ meeting intervened. Finally, it was decided that he should motor out after the banquet, and remain at Brookchase for the night. “Do not wait up for me. Your man can meet me. I shall be there by twelve,” he said.
Having recovered from the natural effects of hearing that there was no man, he added: “By the way, Enid, I seem to remember that your grandmother had some quaint old things. Were there not several paintings and a carving or two? Trifles probably, but I might help you do something with them.”
“Trifles! Why, Cary, surely you remember the Laughing Duchess? It has been the family treasure for generations, that and the Mercury. It is about these things that I want particularly to consult you,” I replied.
“Well, well,” he said, tolerantly, “I vaguely recall the piece. A very nice copy, no doubt, of Fierienti’s Duchess.”
“Copy!” I cried. “Indeed, it is the original from which Fierienti made his copy. I can prove it from grandma’s records. It is the Fierienti thought to have been destroyed in the London fire.”
“I will have a look at it, Enid. I hate to disillusion you, but old ladies attach exaggerated value to their treasures. No doubt your grandmother believed in it.”
“She was your grandmother, too,” I found myself murmuring.
“Surely, surely,” he continued cheerfully, “but the things are yours, my dear girl, and it occurred to me as an opportunity now for you to raise a little something on them.”
He rang off, and I sat with my head in my hands. The Fierienti a copy! I could not credit it. In spite of the disappointment which the mirage of a fortune almost invariably disguises, this alluring, laughing little figure’s identity had been family history. Three centuries had staked their faiths upon it. Yet, Cary Penwick was an expert. . . . I paced the floor, assuring myself that even experts were not infallible; the Chevalier de Russy was an authority, whereas Cary had been but a careless boy when he saw the Fierienti. My mercurial spirit soared upward again; I refused to believe the worst until confronted by it; then I would surrender gracefully. I ran to tell Martha of the guest’s coming, and found her poised, Mahomet-like, between the ether of joy and the mundane condition of the larder.