The Business of Life. Robert W. Chambers

up his mind that he wouldn't return to Silverwood in a hurry.

      But that plan was one of the mice-like plans men make so confidently under the eternal skies.

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

      Desboro arrived in town on a late train. It was raining, so he drove to his rooms, exchanged his overcoat for a raincoat, and went out into the downpour again, undisturbed, disdaining an umbrella.

      In a quarter of an hour's vigorous walking he came to the celebrated antique shop of Louis Nevers, and entered, letting in a gust of wind and rain at his heels.

      Everywhere in the semi-gloom of the place objects loomed mysteriously, their outlines lost in shadow except where, here and there, a gleam of wintry daylight touched a jewel or fell across some gilded god, lotus-throned, brooding alone.

      When Desboro's eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, he saw that there was armour there, complete suits, Spanish and Milanese, and an odd Morion or two; and there were jewels in old-time settings, tapestries, silver, ivories, Hispano-Moresque lustre, jades, crystals.

      The subdued splendour of Chinese and Japanese armour, lacquered in turquoise, and scarlet and gold, glimmered on lay figures masked by grotesque helmets; an Ispahan rug, softly luminous, trailed across a table beside him, and on it lay a dead Sultan's scimitar, curved like the new moon, its slim blade inset with magic characters, the hilt wrought as delicately as the folded frond of a fern, graceful, exquisite, gem-incrusted.

      There were a few people about the shop, customers and clerks, moving shapes in the dull light. Presently a little old salesman wearing a skull cap approached him.

      "Rainy weather for Christmas week, sir. Can I be of service?"

      "Thanks," said Desboro. "I came here by appointment on a matter of private business."

      "Certainly, sir. I think Miss Nevers is not engaged. Kindly give me your card and I will find out."

      "But I wish to see Mr. Nevers himself."

      "Mr. Nevers is dead, sir."

      "Oh! I didn't know——"

      "Yes, sir. Mr. Nevers died two years ago." And, as Desboro remained silent and thoughtful: "Perhaps you might wish to see Miss Nevers? She has charge of everything now, including all our confidential affairs."

      "No doubt," said Desboro pleasantly, "but this is an affair requiring personal judgment and expert advice——"

      "I understand, sir. The gentlemen who came to see Mr. Nevers about matters requiring expert opinions now consult Miss Nevers personally."

      "Who is Miss Nevers?"

      "His daughter, sir." He added, with quaint pride: "The great jewelers of Fifth Avenue consult her; experts in our business often seek her advice. The Museum authorities have been pleased to speak highly of her monograph on Hurtado de Mendoza."

      Desboro hesitated for a moment, then gave his card to the old salesman, who trotted away with it down the unlighted vista of the shop.

      The young man's pleasantly indifferent glance rested on one object after another, not unintelligently, but without particular interest. Yet there were some very wonderful and very rare and beautiful things to be seen in the celebrated shop of the late Jean Louis Nevers.

      So he stood, leaning on his walking stick, the upturned collar of his raincoat framing a face which was too colourless and worn for a man of his age; and presently the little old salesman came trotting back, the tassel on his neat silk cap bobbing with every step.

      "Miss Nevers will be very glad to see you in her private office. This way, if you please, sir."

      Desboro followed to the rear of the long, dusky shop, turned to the left through two more rooms full of shadowy objects dimly discerned, then traversed a tiled passage to where electric lights burned over a doorway.

      The old man opened the door; Desboro entered and found himself in a square picture gallery, lighted from above, and hung all around with dark velvet curtains to protect the pictures on sale. As he closed the door behind him a woman at a distant desk turned her head, but remained seated, pen poised, looking across the room at him as he advanced. Her black gown blended so deceptively with the hangings that at first he could distinguish only the white face and throat and hands against the shadows behind her.

      "Will you kindly announce me to Miss Nevers?" he said, looking around for a chair.

      "I am Miss Nevers."

      She closed the ledger in which she had been writing, laid aside her pen and rose. As she came forward he found himself looking at a tall girl, slim to thinness, except for the rounded oval of her face under a loose crown of yellow hair, from which a stray lock sagged untidily, curling across her cheek.

      He thought: "A blue-stocking prodigy of learning, with her hair in a mess, and painted at that." But he said politely, yet with that hint of idle amusement in his voice which often sounded through his speech with women:

      "Are you the Miss Nevers who has taken over this antique business, and who writes monographs on Hurtado de Mendoza?"

      "Yes."

      "You appear to be very young to succeed such a distinguished authority as your father, Miss Nevers."

      His observation did not seem to disturb her, nor did the faintest hint of mockery in his pleasant voice. She waited quietly for him to state his business.

      He said: "I came here to ask somebody's advice about engaging an expert to appraise and catalogue my collection."

      And even while he was speaking he was conscious that never before had he seen such a white skin and such red lips—if they were natural. And he began to think that they might be.

      He said, noticing the bright lock astray on her cheek once more:

      "I suppose that I may speak to you in confidence—just as I would have spoken to your father."

      She was still looking at him with the charm of youthful inquiry in her eyes.

      "Certainly," she said.

      She glanced down at his card which still lay on her blotter, stood a moment with her hand resting on the desk, then indicated a chair at her elbow and seated herself.

      He took the chair.

      "I wrote you that I'd drop in sometime this week. The note was directed to your father. I did not know he was not living."

      "You are the Mr. Desboro who owns the collection of armour?" she asked.

      "I am that James Philip Desboro who lives at Silverwood," he said. "Evidently you have heard of the Desboro collection of arms and armour."

      "Everybody has, I think."

      He said, carelessly: "Museums, amateur collectors, and students know it, and I suppose most dealers in antiques have heard of it."

      "Yes, all of them, I believe."

      "My house," he went on, "Silverwood, is in darkest Westchester, and my recent grandfather, who made the collection, built a wing to contain it. It's there as he left it. My father made no additions to it. Nor," he added, "have I. Now I want to ask you whether a lot of those things have not increased in value since my grandfather's day?"

      "No doubt."

      "And the collection is valuable?"

      "I think it must be—very."

      "And to determine its value I ought to have an expert go there and catalogue it and appraise it?"

      "Certainly."

      "Who? That's what I've come here to find out."