"He wasn't serious, surely!"

"I think he was," said Aline.

"But five thousand dollars!"

"It isn't really very much to father, you know. He gave away a
hundred thousand a year ago to a university."

"But for a grubby little scarab!"

"You don't understand how father loves his scarabs. Since he
retired from business, he has been simply wrapped up in them. You
know collectors are like that. You read in the papers about men
giving all sorts of money for funny things."

Outside the door R. Jones, his ear close to the panel, drank in
all these things greedily. He would have been willing to remain
in that attitude indefinitely in return for this kind of special
information; but just as Aline said these words a door opened on
the floor above, and somebody came out, whistling, and began to
descend the stairs.

R. Jones stood not on the order of his going. He was down in the
hall and fumbling with the handle of the front door with an
agility of which few casual observers of his dimensions would
have deemed him capable. The next moment he was out in the
street, walking calmly toward Leicester Square, pondering over
what he had heard.