of enthusiasm. A cold-eyed man, with a projecting lower jaw, that at once suggested comparison with that of a pike, he carried a mercilessly depreciating manner even into his most private life.
"Anglo-Saxon?" he replied shortly. "What's the thing worth?"
"Beornwulf, King of Mercia; lovely fine condition, too. Fetch a tenner any time at Sotheby's, even on a wet day."
"Oh, that all?" said Scott dispassionately. "What do they want for it?" Not that he despised such crumbs of commerce as "tenners" any more than his prototype the pike neglects the smaller minnows, but his personal tastes ran in the direction of high finance and large transactions.
"No, my boy, that isn't all; not by a long, long chalk," replied Mr. Lester, with imperturbable good-humour. "That's only the sample that came along in a chip matchbox, as though it might be a penn'orth of tin-tacks. Listen to this:
"'One Tree Cottage,
High Cross,
Hockington.
"'James Cray.'"
Mr. Scott's mouth opened and closed unconsciously, until he resembled a monstrous pike more than ever.
