A CONNOISSEUR DEAL

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1798, 22 August 1906, Page 8

A CONNOISSEUR DEAL

(By Dion Clayton Calthrop' and Comyms * Beaumont.)

It was a case of “extremes meet.” The picture smiled down on Denis Dellone from the walls of a barely furnished room.

“It is time something was done,” said Denis to himself over his second egg. The second egg, happily, made no reply*

For three months Denis had comforted himself, his landlady and) the least insistent of his creditors with the cheery sentence, “It is time something was done.”

His grandfather, Sham,us, had basked in the expensive sunlight of royal smiles at Brighton durng the Regency. The best part of the estate, the horses and tho three beautiful pictures by Holbein had paid for that. Hie father, Patrick Denis, had served hie country in a crack regiment, had entertained as befitted the son of Shamus, and had married a woman of undoubted charms and great gaiety of character. The remainder of the estate, the silver and the rest of the * pictures had paid for that. The present Dellone of Dellone, by courtesy only, since Dellone was the property of a Hebrew syndicate which had turned the place into a health resort, had been triumphantly called to the Bar before his father’s death, and was in the usual predicament common to gay and thriftless persons —“broke.” So much will give you the history of the Hogarth which smiled down upon a puzzled, but never melancholy, Denis. Ho passed before him all the careers open to penniless young barristers; he even thought of the stage. “To be or not to he,” he said, stroking the cat. Then he turned over the advertisement pages of the paper. “If any gentleman, young, energetic” —He rejected that. “Should this meet the eye of a gentleman anxious to join another in a lucrative business.” He glanced ahead—- “ Capital required, only £5000.” “A mere clroo,” he said, “a mere handful, hut I’ll do it.”

Similar advertisements offered G, 7, 10, even 25 per cent, to the lucky investor. The sums required varied, hut invariably it was a “gentleman’’ who must supply them, birth, blood and breeding seeming indispensable to the furtherance of all these schemes. At last, when the teapot was empty and a third pipe lighted, did ho see a glimmer of hope. A man wanted another man’s help in a large fruit arid vegetable farm in the South of England, active outdoor labour, a genuine interest in feucli work, and, after a year’s pupilage cf £IOO, a sinking of £SOO only, and a third share in the enterprise. Six hundred pounds! The idea caught hold of him. And congenial work, true enough. As a hoy he had been an enthusiastic gardener; as a youth, before the smash, it had been his hobby. Six hundred pounds! He owed two hundred odd, he had exhausted his friends, and hie enemies were waiting for him, natural enemies —duns. “They can’t draw blood out of a stone,” he thought, but he had etill a little money left in the hank —about four hundred. His mother had left him a small sum which brought him in a hundred a year, but ho had been living on the capital for some little time.

The thought struck him —“Pay his debts —say three hundred, round figures —one hundred over, into this business, free—a third eh are” He did not know why the scheme appealed to* him, it was enough that it did. Five hundred pounds! He looked round the room and smiled. A stick or two of furniture, two or three bits of silver of no value—the picture. Five hundred pc unde! So hie thoughts ran. i

Was it worth five hundred? ITe turned Hastily over the pages of the paper, came to “Sales.” and his heart gave a pleasant leap. A Hogarth, a small conversation picture, had fetched £2ooo'. , Kero was wealth. In a moment, true to his race, the thought-of throwing over • he. idea of the fruit farm for the precon t : ho thought that he would live finely upon the proceeds of the sale until

ho had only six or seven hundred left, and then, hey, for the land, and banish Fashion for Denis Dellone. There was no doubt about the picture, it was a Hogarth to tho last touch. “Fine Company” lie had always called' it since quite a child, so lie supposed that must he the name. Quickly he figured the thing out, down to the very journalism concerning it. ‘A wonderful Hogarth, hidden for many year a in the ancestral home of the Dellone family, has now come to light. It reveals all the finest quality of the* master’s genius. The exquisite handling, the mincing attitude of the men, and the languish of the ladies, the wonderful painting of the interior, all go to prove that this hitherto unknown work is one of the finest Hogarths that has even come into the auction room” — He stopped there- —auction room ; no. the Doll one of Dellone, the future holder of a third share in a fruit farm, must not expose his wares in a public auction room. No, ho would part with it to a dealer in such work's of art. Tho Hogarth smiled upon a gay, whistling Denis as he plunged—quo can call it by no other word —into his frock coat and accessories. Denis paused before taking the picture from the' wall. It was his last family possession; generations of Dellone*. had looked upon the satire off “Fine Company.” It was a beautiful thing. “Well,” he said to tho picture, rather sadly for a moment, “goodby, you grinning idiots. No more Fine Company for me.”

In a few moments the Hogarth was safely m front of him in a four-wheeler. “Tannings, Bond street,” ne called to the driver.

Tho carefully rude clerk of Messrs Tunning® informed Mr Dellone that on© of tho partners would be down in a minute. Tho Hogarth was not a large picture, and Denis had carried it in himself.

“Good morning, Mr —•— Dellone,” said the dealer, reading the card. Ho eyed the picture curiously, lightly, pleasantly. “I have no room for this, Mr ?”

“Tunning.” “Mr Tunning, it is a Hogarth, as you can see for yourself, and I thought of carting with it.” “All, you gentlemen with valuable pictures,” said Mr Tunning, eyeing the picture less curiously, more lightly. “I cau assure you” . Denis began. Tunning shook at finger at him. “We know,” he said. “It is a very fine Hogarth,” said Denis. Tunning lifted his eyebrows. “Dear me,” ho said, pleasantly. “I thought at first that my hearing failed me. S'o you call that a Hogarth ? Dear mo !” “Of course it is a Hogarth.”

“I cannot explain' my reasons to you, sir,” said Tunning, “but that picture is not a Hogarth. Ah,” lie Held up his hand. “I knew your father’s collection, very lino pictures, but this”— He bent over the picture. “Sixty guineas,” he said shortly.

For answer Denis picked up the picture and prepared to go. “I’m not here to waste my time or yours, Mr Tunning. I shall take it to Verne lli’s. Your offer ia ridiculous,” he added indignantly.

j “Extremely sorry,” came Tunning’s ! quiet, benign voice. Denis rad left. | At Vernelli’s the same reception, the 1 same offer—sixty guineas—awaited him. | Ho drove, to To Hem ache, in Pall Mall; ; to We. Con and Dewsbury, in Pall Mall ’East, and with them all no met with 1 the same charming, smiling method of ! ignoring his protestation®. i “A Hqgarth, my dear sir,” said old : Watson, “why, I should know a Hogarth in the dark by the feel of the paint. ; It iff a, good cvpy, I will confess” —(here ’ tho telephone hell rang)—“Excuse me . for one moment.” i A clerk came forward. Watson diew him aside and a whispered consultation followed. Then Watson came forward blandly. Something led Deni®, some light which broke upon his mind like an inspiration. ! “Sixty guineas?” lie queried. ! For a moment Watson hesitated, saw j the quizzical look on the y<*ung man’s ! face, decided to be open with him, thought, hesitated, was lost, j “My dear Mr Dellone,” ho said, “we | must protect ourselves.” | “By keeping the price down,” ex- ! claimed Denis bitterly. | “And i!]),” answered Watson. “A pio | tore is worth what we choose to giv© for it. We can queer it anywhere, privately or at —well—a big saleroom. , Trade, my dear .sir, a queer trade is ; ours, and we must work together.” His frankness) disarmed the Irishman. ; “You will sell it at some respectable figure.”

“Tilwo things are done,” said Watson. “May I?” "Secrets, Mr Deliane, cabinet scen ts,” the joke seemed to amuse him. “Come, now. I’ll give you cightv, and it's a deal.” Del lone hesitated a moment. Eighty pounds! Rather a drop from two thousand, but, still, eighty pounds was an advance on sixty. Ami with eighty pounds one could do something; whereas a copy of an old master “Very well,” ho said shortly. “You must lunch with me,” said Watson , os ho wrote the cheque. “I’d sooner lunch with the devil,” said Denis, suddenly mantling with anger at the man’s familiarity. “Excellent company—a grilled bone-—-eh?” chuckled eld Watson, a<s he handed him the check and bowed him out.; When the door of Mr Watson’s private room had closed again, that astute gentleman rubbed his hands, chuckled noiselessly, and rang for his fid us Achates. Stone, as his confidential clerk wan called, entered—a little man, with a dry, parchment face, without a particle of hair on it. “I hnvo done a good day's business to-day, Stone,*’ remarked the chief in a cheery manner. “Look at that picture.” Stone regarded the Hogarth, but without betraying any surprise.

“It’s the famous ‘Fine Company,’ isn’t it?” he asked. Every one knew the picture existed, hut its whereabouts were a my s eery.

Stone had once been a wealthy patron of the arts himself, but having been ruined in this extravagant calling, had been given a job by Mr Watson, who had helped to lighten him in his affluent days.

“I bought'itr for eighty guineas,” said Watson, with another chuckle. “A young Irish ass named Dellone sold it to mo. He went first to Tanning’s, then Vernelli’s. They warned me on the ’phono. I raised their offer of sixty guineas by another twenty. Stone” —Watson’s voice sank to a. hoarse whisper—“if we manage this business properly the picture ought to fetch about five thousand pounds At least.” “I’ll go and see the other members of the ring, sir,” said Stone. “Just so. Offer them a division on the basis of a thousand pounds. I think they will agree. It’s a generous offer. Alr.'o telephone to Sawyer at ‘The Daily Snippet’ . to- come down immediately to see me.” All the well-oiled machinery of a liiglicl: es modei’u firm like Watson and Dewsbury was quickly set in motion. Sawyer was closeted with the head of the firm for a long time, and left Mr Watson poorer than when he ent -red. Their little arrangement soon caused a flutter the press, which, with the exception of one or two papers, began to paragraph the discovery of a genuine Hogarth. From paragraphs the notices' grew to quarter columns, until one day, one carefully calculated day, a whole column, with a neat, headline, gave the nation to understand what a chance lay at its feet. As a next move in the campaign Mr Watson wrote a private and confidential note to one of his best customers requesting him to call, as lie had a picture just suited to his collection. Felix Hochstein, a. gentleman who dabbled in expensive pictures and made a fortune in Conner mines, arrived in Pall Mali with the pompous air of one who knows a good thing when lie sees it. The Hogaith, newly cleaned, rested upon an easel draped in black velvet, a black velvet curtain, on a rod, hung over the picture. Mr Watson knew the value of a dramatic moment.

After a cigarette and desultory conversation, there wan a silence : Mr Watsen rose from the comfortable .sofa, went to the curtain, and quickly drew it aside. The little rings rattled. . . . The Hogarth was exposed. “It’s a gem,” said Mr Watson, “but- I want ready cash. I’ll sell it to you for. fifteen hundred.” Within half an hour a cheque for fifteen hundred lay on Watson’s desk, and the Hogarth .found a new home in Mr Hochstein’o Mahogany Doom in Berkeley Square. For a week “Fine Company” hung between a beautiful Greuze and a. rsriiall head by Van Dyck; then the third stop was taken by Watson and Dewsbury. Dwyer, the well-known art critic, whose position on an important journal placed him, like Caesar’s wife, above suspicion, called, by appointment, upon Mr Hochstein. “Hogarth,” said Hochstein, without a doubt in his tone. “Yes, Hogarth,” the eminent critic replied, apparently without much interest. “A beautiful thing.” “A fair picture, fair, an early Hogaith—m’yes. Who did you buy it from ?” “Watson and Dewsbury.” “And you gave” The critic check'ed himself. “T was going to put an impertinent- question to you, I’m afraid,” ho said, smiling. “I don’t mind telling you.” exclaimed Hochstein. “It cost me fifteen hundred pounds.” A low whistle escaped the lips of the critic.

“If I may say so, tliat was a very heavy sum for that picture—very heavy ; now, if it had been the Greuze?” He looked with reverent admiration on the simpering girl’s head. ‘Tm surprised at Watson asking you so much for it. A thousand would have been a good price. Bub, of course, I may be mistaken, so please don’t tell Watson I said so.” But Mr Hochstein did tell Watson. He was furious at the thought of being outwitted by a dealer, and he had such great confidence in Sawyer’s judgment that, when he had entertained him for the purpose of racking his brains, he was not going to keep silence. He hastened to Pall Mall East, and sent in his card to Mr Watson. That gentleman glanced at the pasteboard and chuckled. ‘‘Show Mr Hochstein in,” he said. Enveloped in a thick fur coat, smoking a fragrant Havana, hut with fury in his. heart, Hochstein came straight to the point. “Look here, Watson,’’ he shouted, /( I’ve been a good customer of yours. You have had thousands from me, and yefc yon swindled me over that Hogarth.” f< You must not eay such wild things, Jhy dear sir,” replied Mr Watson, urbanely. “But I repeat it. I’ve seen Sawyer, whose opinion you profess to respect. BDe says it isn’t worth A penny over a thousand pounds.” “Mr Sawyer is wrong.” “Well, I believe in him. I say I was done over that deal.” Mr Watson shrugged his shoulders. “Aa you please,” he said, “but I tell you —and one day the correctness of what I say ’will be proved—-Mr Sawyer hlad made a mistake.” “Look here. You’re got to take this picture back, at the same figure,” cried

Hochstein, and, to his amazement, Watson proved perfectly amenable.* “Certainly, Mr Hochstein. Here is my cheque, and now, will you please give mo a receipt. Hochstein therefore had come off, as ho thought, the winner, but he had not reckoned with the subtleties of the firm of Watson and Dewsbury. The Hogarth changed hands, this time with a difference. It had a money pedigree, and, more than that, fathered by the name of Felix Hochstein, the wealthy financier and connoiseur. Mr Watson and Mr Sawyer met again, greatly elated at the success of their operations. The latter gentleman had the entree to the press, and thus mysterious inquiries began to crop up in tlie papers. One read a number of such headings as these: “Will the nation awake from its torpor with regard to Art ?” “Shall this picture go out of the country—Hogarth, cur most English master, our great pictorial historian ?’’ “America inquires from across the sea respecting the Hogarth. The Louvre excited.” In a few weeks the boom, the national Hogarth boom, was going strong. Cranks on both sides wrote to the papers: cranks replied. The “Fine Company” was called a moral lesson, a disgusting episode, a sermon in paint, and the eoumeet expression in Art. People who knew nothing about pictures, and cared lees, were persuaded that to lose the Hogarth would be a national crime. They subscribed halfcrowns, guineas, larger sums, toward a fund started by an enthusiast, who headed the list with a sum borrowed for the occasion from Mr Watson in a private and confidential manner. An American gentleman, stepping at the Savoy, talked loudly of the desire the American nation had to possess a fino Hogarth; he, in fact, was negotiating with a view to taking the ‘‘Fine Company” back with him over the water. A reporter was suspiciously near at hand to take down his words. The value of the Hogaith doubled with the competition, and eventually England bought- the picture for £SOOO. Watson and Dewsbury’s profit must have reached an enormous percentage, but as they adroitly posed as who were sacrificing their material gains they added to their reputation. Mr Hochstein t-oro his hair, and wanted to murder Sawyer for misleading him. Denis Del long returned to town from a course of hard work on the fruit farm. Mr Watson received him as blandly as ever. “My dear sir,” he said, in an expostulatory tone, “it was a very unfortunate matter from beginning to end. Mr Hochstein bought it from me for a mere song, for I honestly believed it was worthless, hut I afterward repurchased it from him at such a high figure that I have only about cleared expenses. Still, I wish to be just. Here are notes for a further hundred pounds. . . . You will admit that I have dealt generously with you, will you not?—“The Bystander.” -

The meritorious service medal has been awarded to Sergeant-Major Henry Boyle, of the Boyal New Zealand Engineer.