Quinneys 33

Quinneys 33

At this Susan, not Posy, blushed. It was the girl who said, calmly:

 

"You are quite right, father. I ought to know what I’ve cost both of

you." She looked at her mother tenderly, and spoke in a softer voice:

"Is it true that you nearly died?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And so did I," said Quinney.

 

Posy’s eyes filled with tears.

 

"I shall always remember that," she murmured.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XVI*

 

*A BUSINESS PROPOSITION*

 

*I*

 

 

"The covers are perfectly beautiful," said Quinney, "the very finest

needlework, all of ’em worked by the same hand, and all of ’em different

in pattern."

 

He was staring at a set of eight chairs which had arrived that morning

from a town in Essex. James had just unpacked them, and was regarding

them gloomily, for he cared nothing about needlework covers, and the

chairs themselves were of walnut, very old, very worm-eaten, and carved

by a prentice hand. He said so presently. Quinney snorted.

 

"Do you think, my lad, I’d ask you to waste your time and talents

tinkering with those? Rip off the covers carefully, and put them aside.

Save the nails and the backing. Don’t show ’em to anybody. They need

cleaning, but I shan’t send ’em to a reg’lar cleaner’s. You can try

your hand on ’em."

 

"Not much in my line," said James.

 

"Liver out o’ whack this morning?"

 

"Not that I’m aware of."

 

"Well, try to look more cheerful. It pays."

 

He scuttled off, chuckling to himself, and thinking what fools other

dealers were, for these chairs had been bought cheap from a dealer who,

like James Miggott, knew nothing of the value of eighteenth-century

needlework.

 

By the luck of things, that same morning Tom Tomlin telephoned from Bond

Street, asking him to drop in at his earliest convenience. Quinney went

at once, well aware that procrastination loses many a bit of business.

He found his friend in much excitement.

 

"Got something to show you," said Tomlin.

 

"Got something to show _you_," retorted Quinney.

 

"What?"

 

"The finest set of old needlework chair-covers I’ve seen for many a long

day."

 

Tomlin exhibited enthusiasm.

 

"That beats the band!" he exclaimed. "Looks as if it was fairly meant."

 

"What d’ye mean, Tom?"

 

"You come along with me, and see."

 

Quinney followed him, conscious of a rising excitement, for Tomlin

reserved enthusiasm for memorable occasions. The pair walked together

down Bond Street and into Oxford Street. In a few minutes they were

passing Lark and Bundy’s establishment. Tomlin paused at the great

plate-glass window.

 

"Look at them chairs, Joe."

 

Quinney flattened his nose against the glass, being slightly

short-sighted. The chairs were magnificent.

 

"Nice lot—hey?"

 

"And a nice price Bundy paid for ’em. You wasn’t at Christopher’s the

day before yesterday?"

 

"By Gum! Tom, you don’t mean to say that those are the Pevensey

chairs?"

 

"Yes, bang out of Pevensey Court, sold with Chippendale’s receipt for

’em. Sixteen hundred guineas, my tulip!"

 

They went on in silence. Presently Quinney growled out: "It’s a cruel

price."

 

"They’re the goods, Joe. Hall-marked! Bundy can place ’em at a big

profit with Dupont Jordan. Did you notice the carving?"

 

"Did I? Never saw a finer set, never!"

 

They walked on towards the Circus, and presently turned sharp to the

right. By this time they were approaching Soho Square.

 

"Come out of our way a bit, haven’t we?"

 

Tomlin replied solemnly. "I wanted you to have a squint at those chairs

first. Here we are."

 

They paused opposite a mean house, entered an open door, and ascended a

rickety, evil-smelling staircase. Tomlin pulled a key from his pocket,

unlocked a door upon the second floor, and ushered Quinney into a

biggish room filled with odds and ends of furniture. Quinney had been

here before. It was one of Tomlin’s many small warehouses. The centre

of the floor had been cleared, and in this cleared space stood four

chairs.

 

"Thunder and Mars!"

 

"Thought you’d be surprised," muttered Tomlin, pulling up a dirty blind.

 

The four chairs were carved like the chairs from Pevensey Court. They

had horsehair seats much dilapidated, and the mahogany had been

mercilessly treated, but to a connoisseur such as Quinney there was not

a scintilla of doubt that they were carved by the same master hand which

had designed and executed the set in Lark and Bundy’s window.

 

"Where are the other four?" asked Quinney, on his knees before the

chairs, running his hands over them, caressing them with tender touches.

 

"Where? Oh, where?" said Tomlin. Then he spoke curtly and to the

point:

 

"Them four came out of Ireland. I paid fifty pound for ’em."

 

"You do have the devil’s own luck, Tom."

 

"Not so fast. I can’t find out anything about them. If I tried to sell

’em, as they are, Lark would see to it that fellows like Pressland

crabbed ’em, as he did that commode o’ yours."

 

Quinney gnashed his teeth. The history of that unhappy transaction was

now known to him. He knew where the commode was, and what price had

been paid for it.

 

"With luck," continued Tomlin thoughtfully, "I might sell these chairs

for fifty apiece. One is an armchair. Your covers would go nicely on

’em, eh?"

 

"By Gum, the very thing."

 

"And you’ve eight covers?"

 

"Eight of the best."

 

Tomlin stared hard at the little man.

 

"Let’s have a look at the covers," he said slowly.

 

They returned to Soho Square. Somewhat to Quinney’s astonishment he

found Posy in James’s room. Her presence, however, was easily and

glibly explained. James, obeying orders, had asked his employer’s

daughter for some cleaning fluid. She had just brought him some. That

was all. Quinney frowned, and signified with a gesture that Posy could

"scoot." She did so, after exchanging greetings with Tomlin.

 

"Dev’lish fine gal!" said Tomlin. "Glad to see she’s not above helpin’

in the business."

 

"Don’t want her help!" growled Quinney. He turned savagely to James:

 

"Didn’t I tell you not to show them covers to nobody?"

 

"Sorry," replied James carelessly. "I supposed Miss Quinney would be

considered an exception." He added, with mild derision, "She took no

interest in the covers at all."

 

"She saw them?" snapped Quinney.

 

"Possibly," said James.

 

Tomlin examined them carefully, nodding his big head, getting redder

than usual as he bent down. James had removed one cover.

 

"They’re a bit of all right," pronounced Tomlin.

 

Quinney led the way upstairs into the sanctuary. Posy was there,

cleaning some beautiful glass lustres. Her father addressed her

snappishly:

 

"Look ye here, young woman, I don’t want you nosin’ about downstairs.

See?"

 

Posy tossed her head, furious with her father because he rebuked her

before Tomlin. She replied coldly:

 

"I thought I could go where I liked in our own house."

 "It’s my house. See? You run along to mother like a good girl."