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discussed the state of business in Europe and America, and Lanny listened attentively, as he

had always done. One who found pleasure in buying and selling old masters could learn from

the technique being here revealed. The Knight Commander of the Bath of England and Grand

Officer of the Legion d'Honneur of France was the very soul of courtesy, of suavity in manner; a

bit deprecating, as if he were saying: "I am a very old man, and it would not be fair to take

advantage of me." His soft voice caressed you and his smile wooed you, but at the same time

his blue eyes watched you warily.

He was known as "the mystery man of Europe," and doubtless there had been mysteries

enough about what he was doing in the political and financial worlds; but so far as his character

was concerned, Lanny no longer found any mystery. An aged plutocrat had fought his way

up in the world by many deeds of which he now did not enjoy the contemplation. He had

intrigued and threatened, bribed and cajoled, made promises and broken them; by tire less

scheming and pushing he had acquired the mastery of those great establishments which the

various countries of Europe needed in order to wage their wars of power. But all the time he

had remained in his soul a Greek peasant living among cruel oppressing Turks. He had been

afraid of a thousand things: of his own memories, of the men he had thwarted and ruined, of

slanderers, blackmailers, assassins, Reds—and, above all, of what he had helped to make

Europe. A man who wanted to sell munitions, who wanted all the nations of the earth to spend

their incomes upon munitions, but who didn't want any munitions shot off—at least not

anywhere within his own hearing! Unaccountably the shooting continued, Europe seemed to be

going from bad to worse, and Zaharoff's conversation revealed that he trusted nobody in power

and had very little hope of anything.

A bitter, sad old man, he felt his powers waning, and had hidden himself away from dangers.

He would soon be gone; and did he worry about where he was going? Or was it about what was

going to become of his possessions? He mourned his beloved Spanish duquesa of the many

names. Did he contemplate the possibility of being reunited to her? Lanny had something to say

to him on that subject, but must wait until the two traders had got through with their duel of

wits.

IV

It was Robbie Budd who had sought this interview, and he who would have to say what he had

come for. Zaharoff, while waiting, would be gravely interested in what Robbie had to tell about

the state of Wall Street and the great American financial world. The visitor was optimistic, sure

that the clouds would soon blow over. Lanny knew that his father really believed that, but

would Zaharoff believe that he believed it? No, the Greek would think that Robbie, having

something to sell, was playing the optimist. Zaharoff, the prospective buyer, was a pessimist.

At last Robbie saw fit to get down to business. He explained that his father was very old, and

the cares of the Budd enterprise might soon be on Robbie's shoulders. Budd's was largely out

of munitions; it was making everything from needles to freight elevators. Robbie would no longer

be in a position to travel—in short, he and his friends were looking for someone to take the New

England-Arabian shares off their hands at a reasonable figure.

There it was; and Zaharoff's pessimism assumed the hues of the nethermost stage of Dante's

inferno. The world was in a most horrible state; the Arabians were on the point of declaring a

jihad and wiping out every European on their vast desolate hot peninsula; Zaharoff himself

was a feeble old man, his doctors had given him final warning, he must avoid every sort of

responsibility and strain —in short, he couldn't buy anything, and didn't have the cash

anyhow.

A flat turn-down; but Lanny had heard a Levantine trader talk, and knew that Zaharoff's real

purpose and desire would not be revealed until the last minute, when his two guests had their

hats in their hands, perhaps when they were outside the front door. Meanwhile they mustn't

show that they knew this; they mustn't betray disappointment; they must go on chatting, as if

it didn't really mean very much to them, as if Robbie Budd had crossed the ocean to have one

more look at Zaharoff's blue eyes, or perhaps at his very fine Ingres.

It was time for Lanny to mention the paintings, which he had been invited to inspect. He

asked if he might stroll about the room, and the Knight Commander and Grand Officer rose

from his seat and strolled with him, pointing out various details. Lanny said: "You know I am

interested in the value of paintings, that being my business." The remark gave no offense; quite

the contrary. The old man told the prices, which he had at his fingertips: a hundred thousand

francs for this Fragonard, a hundred and fifty thousand for that David. "Before-the-war

francs," he added.

They went into the great library, a magnificent room with a balcony all around it, having