It
wasn't until I'd bought several of those small canvases from the Putney
man that I began to inquire closely into their origin. As a general rule
it's a mistake for a dealer to be too curious. But my curiosity got the
better of me. And when I found out that the pictures were being produced
week by week, fresh, then I knew I was on the edge of some mystery.
CARVE. (Awkwardly.) The fact is, perhaps, I ought to explain.
EBAG. Pardon me. I ask nothing. It isn't my affair. I felt certain,
solely from the evidence of what I was buying, that the great painter
who was supposed to be buried in Westminster Abbey, and whose somewhat
premature funeral I attended, must be alive and painting vigorously. I
wanted the assurance from your lips. I have it. The rest does not
concern me--at any rate, for the moment.
CARVE. I'll say this--you know a picture when you see it.
EBAG. (Proudly.) I am an expert, nothing else.
CARVE. All right! Well, I'll only ask you to persevere in your
discretion. As you say, it isn't your affair.
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