honesty than the great Salamans family, but with
none of their keenness and experience. This man
was so clumsy, and so greedy of present profit,
that he would have nipped the most promising
innocent purchaser in the bud. Before, however, he
could succeed in disgusting the mind and opening
the eyes of Mr. Huggin, that gentleman was
carried out of his reach by important business
in town.

V.

It was at this period that the death of Sir
Saffron Hill, the great collector and connoisseur,
was announced. Sir Saffron Hill had
excited the envy and admiration of his tribe for
more than half a century. The envy was
bestowed upon his collection, the admiration upon
his judgment. He was supposed to possess
everything that was unique and valuable; he
was supposed to know the imposition from the
genuine thing at a glance. If he declared a
picture to be by the divine Raffaelle, it was
warranted: if he refused to say that a group of
plump beauties was by Rubens, their reputation
was hopelessly blasted. He had been heard to
utter some contemptuous remarks about Guido,
and Venuses fell, at once, to a discount in the
market. His opinion was sought even beyond
the realms of high art, and he was sometimes
asked to place his hand on the brown back of a
violin, and to tell its trembling owner if it was
really a Straduarius.

Sir Saffron Hill lived a lonely life in one of
the old squares, with nothing but his beloved
collection and a few vulgar servants. He was very
unwilling to show his collection, and was a
miser, in every sense of the word, although
it has been the fashion never to associate this
character with anything but money. One
evening, after dinner, Sir Saffron Hill was
discovered dead in his easy-chair, with his
latest purchase—a small piece of Palissy-ware—
on the hearth-rug before him. There was
abundance of dusky Utrecht velvet, tortoiseshell
buhl, lapis lazuli, ebony, Sèvres porcelain,
oil-colour gems, and water-colour jewels at his side
and at his back, while a bust of one of the
Cæsars, nearly over his head, seemed to be
making faces at another Cæsar opposite, as if
nothing had happened.

The death was rather welcomed by the art-
world than otherwise, as it promised to disperse
a very large and valuable collection. The late
unrivalled connoisseur had died without a will,
and the two discarded children—a boy and girl
—who came forward to claim the property,
were not disposed, either by education or
circumstances, to retain it in its art form. A dozen
hammers were trembling with eagerness, but
the choice fell upon Messrs. Gowen and Gorne.

VI.

For days you could hardly get near the
celebrated auction rooms in Plush-street, St. Crœsus.
The crowd was so great and so mixed, that many
persons of authority said it was like going to
court. The Countess of Dura was seen struggling
between Mr. Barrington from Whitechapel
(alias "Duffing Jemmy") and a leading
member of the great Salamans family. The
Duke of Majolica had his hat knocked over his
eyes. The street was full of carriages, cabs, and
go-carts; and the spotless auctioneers were
accused of favouring certain visitors by letting
them in through a skylight.

The second day's sale served to tone down
this enthusiasm a little, and, on the third day,
Mr. Huggin was passing by chance, and found
his way into the centre of the auction-room.

"Lot ninety-five," continued the auctioneer,
rapidly. "An interior—Van Pothaus—two
figures at window—beautiful effect of pipe-light
—credit alike to artist and collector—shall we
say one hundred pounds?"

Two, three, five, ten hundred pounds were
quickly offered from various parts of the crowd.

"Thousan' guinis," cried the eldest of the
Salamans family. "Mr. Slayman and Co."

"One thousand and eighty pounds," exclaimed
a feeble little gentleman in spectacles.

"One thousand and eighty pounds," repeated
the auctioneer.

"Let Slayman 'av' it," shouted the venerable
father of the Salamans family.

"Mr. Salamans," said the auctioneer, sternly,
"I must beg that you will abstain from
interrupting the sale."

The sale went on, and a tall, severe-looking,
middle-aged gentleman, in a white necktie,
secured the picture with a solemn inclination of
his head, and a commanding wave of his hand,
for fifteen hundred pounds.

"Lord Eiky Drummond, I think?" said the
auctioneer's clerk, as he recorded the purchaser's
name. The solemn inclination of the head was
slowly repeated, and the Salamans family looked
as if they had made the acquaintance of a new
picture-buyer before unknown to them.

Mr. Huggin witnessed all this in silent amazement.
He had read a few books that took the
purple-bloom view of art, but not sufficient to
turn his brain; and, at present, his chief touchstone
of merit in a picture was the two-foot
rule. The Van Pothaus he had just seen sold
for such a considerable sum, was no larger than
many works he had got at home, which he fully
believed he had bought with the rarest taste and
judgment. He saw more lots disposed of to
buyers who took the well-advertised character
of the late Sir Saffron Hill as a
guarantee in every way sufficient for the value
of the paintings. The Salamans family looked
on, bought nothing, and gained some useful
information about buyers. Mr. Huggin looked
on and thought he saw his way, while gaining
the reputation of a person of taste, to work a
wonderful field for profitable investment. He
bought a few more volumes upon the purplebloom
view of art, which he read, and mixed up
with his shop view of the subject. When he
had settled down, once more, in his northern
city, he was in as fit a state as any collector
could ever be, to be tapped by a judicious
picture-dealer.