discouraged by failures, but try again and again; and mind you

are dirty and dark enough. You have heard a great deal about the
light and shade of Rembrandt-- Remember always that, in your

case, light means dusky yellow, and shade dense black; remember
that, and--"

"No pay," said the voice of Mr. Pickup behind me; "no pay, my
dear, unlesh your Rembrandt ish good enough to take me in--even

me, Ishmael, who dealsh in pictersh and knowsh what'sh what."
What did I care about Rembrandt at that moment? I was thinking of

my lost young lady; and I should probably have taken no notice of
Mr. Pickup, if it had not occurred to me that the old wretch must

know her father's name and address. I at once put the question.
The Jew grinned, and shook his grisly head. "Her father'sh in

difficultiesh, and mum's the word, my dear." To that answer he
adhered, in spite of all that I could say to him.

With equal obstinacy I determined, sooner or later, to get my
information.

I took service under Mr. Pickup, purposing to make myself
essential to his prosperity, in a commercial sense--and then to

threaten him with offering my services to a rival manufacturer of
Old Masters, unless he trusted me with the secret of the name and

address. My plan looked promising enough at the time. But, as
some wise person has said, Man is the sport of circumstances. Mr.

Pickup and I parted company unexpectedly, on compulsion. And, of
all the people in the world, my grandmother, Lady Malkinshaw, was

the unconscious first cause of the events which brought me and
the beloved object together again, for the third time!

CHAPTER VI.
ON the next day, I was introduced to the Jew's workshop, and to

the eminent gentlemen occupying it. My model Rembrandt was put
before me; the simple elementary rules were explained; and my

materials were all placed under my hands.
Regard for the lovers of the Old Masters, and for the moral

well-being of society, forbids me to be particular about the
nature of my labors, or to go into dangerous detail on the

subject of my first failures and my subsequent success. I may,
however, harmlessly admit that my Rembrandt was to be of the

small or cabinet size, and that, as there was a run on
Burgomasters just then, my subject was naturally to be of the

Burgomaster sort. Three parts of my picture consisted entirely of
different shades of dirty brown and black; the fourth being

composed of a ray of yellow light falling upon the wrinkled face
of a treacle-colored old man. A dim glimpse of a hand, and a

faint suggestion of something like a brass washhand
basin, completed the job, which gave great satisfaction to Mr.

Pickup, and which was described in the catalogue as--
"A Burgomaster at Breakfast. Originally in the collection of

Mynheer Van Grubb. Amsterdam. A rare example of the master. Not
engraved. The chiar'oscuro in this extraordinary work is of a

truly sublimecharacter. Price, Two Hundred Guineas."
I got five pounds for it. I suppose Mr. Pickup got

one-ninety-five.
This was perhaps not very encouraging as a beginning, in a

pecuniary point of view. But I was to get five pounds more, if my
Rembrandt sold within a given time. It sold a week after it was

in a fit state to be trusted in the showroom. I got my money, and
began enthusiastically on another Rembrandt--"A Burgomaster's

Wife Poking the Fire." Last time, the chiar'oscuro of the master
had been yellow and black, this time it was to be red and black.

I was just on the point of forcing my way into Mr. Pickup's
confidence, as I had resolved, when a catastrophe happened, which

shut up the shop and abruptly terminated my experience as a maker
of Old Masters.

"The Burgomaster's Breakfast" had been sold to a new customer, a
venerable connoisseur, blessed with a great fortune and a large

picture-gallery. The old gentleman was in raptures with the
picture--with its tone, with its breadth, with its grand feeling

for effect, with its simple treatment of detail. It wanted
nothing, in his opinion, but a little cleaning. Mr. Pickup knew

the raw and ticklish state of the surface, however, far too well,
to allow of even an attempt at performing this process, and

solemnly asserted, that he was acquainted with no cleansing
preparation which could be used on the Rembrandt without danger

of "flaying off the last exquisite glazings of the immortal
master's brush." The old gentleman was quite satisfied with this

reason for not cleaning the Burgomaster, and took away his
purchase in his own carriage on the spot.

For three weeks we heard nothing more of him. At the end of that
time, a Hebrew friend of Mr. Pickup, employed in a lawyer's

office, terrified us all by the information that a gentleman
related to our venerable connoisseur had seen the Rembrandt, had

pronounced it to be an impudent counterfeit, and had engaged on
his own account to have the picture tested in a court of law, and

to charge the seller and maker thereof with conspiring to obtain
money under false pretenses. Mr. Pickup and I looked at each

other with very blank faces on receiving this agreeable piece of
news. What was to be done? I recovered the full use of my

faculties first; and I was the man who solved that important and
difficult question, while the rest were still utterly bewildered

by it. "Will you promise me five and twenty pounds in the
presence of these gentlemen if I get you out of this scrape?"

said I to my terrified employer. Ishmael Pickup wrung his dirty
hands and answered, "Yesh, my dear!"

Our informant in this awkward matter was employed at the office
of the lawyers who were to have the conducting of the case

against us; and he was able to tell me some of the things I most
wanted to know in relation to the picture.

I found out from him that the Rembrandt was still in our
customer's possession. The old gentleman had consented to the

question of its genuineness being tried, but had far too high an
idea of his own knowledge as a connoisseur to incline to the

opinion that he had been taken in. His suspiciousrelative was
not staying in the house, but was in the habit of visiting him,

every day, in the forenoon. That was as much as I wanted to know
from others. The rest depended on myself, on luck, time, human

credulity, and a smattering of chemical knowledge which I had
acquired in the days of my medical studies. I left the conclave

at the picture-dealer's forthwith, and purchased at the nearest
druggist's a bottle containing a certain powerful liquid, which I

decline to particularize on high moral grounds. I labeled the
bottle "The Amsterdam Cleansing Compound"; and I wrapped round it

the following note:
"Mr. Pickup's respectful compliments to Mr.--(let us say, Green).

Is rejoiced to state that he finds himself unexpectedly able to
forward Mr. Green's views relative to the cleaning of 'The

Burgomaster's Breakfast.' The inclosed compound has just reached
him from Amsterdam. It is made from a recipe found among the

papers of Rembrandt himself--has been used with the most
astonishing results on the Master's pictures in every gallery of

Holland, and is now being applied to the surface of the largest
Rembrandt in Mr. P.'s own collection. Directions for use: Lay the

picture flat, pour the whole contents of the bottle over it
gently, so as to flood the entire surface; leave the liquid on

the surface for six hours, then wipe it off briskly with a soft
cloth of as large a size as can be conveniently used. The effect

will be the most wonderful removal of all dirt, and a complete
and brilliantmetamorphosis of the present dingy surface of the

picture."
I left this note and the bottle myself at two o'clock that day;

then went home, and confidently awaited the result.
The next morning our friend from the office called, announcing

himself by a burst of laughter outside the door. Mr. Green had
implicitly followed the directions in the letter the moment he

received it--had allowed the "Amsterdam Cleansing Compound" to