"And your name?"

"O'Day."

"Irish, of course--well, all the same, come down any
morning this week. My name is Ganger; I'm on
the fourth floor--been there twenty-two years. You'll
have to walk up--we all do. Yes, I'll expect
you."

Kling, whom Felix consulted, began at once to demur.
He knew all about the building on 10th Street.
More than one of his old frames--part of the clearing-
out sale of some Southern homestead, the portraits
being reserved because unsalable--had resumed their
careers on the walls of the Academy as guardians and
protectors of masterpieces painted by the denizens of
this same old rattletrap, the Studio Building. Some
of its tenants, too, had had accounts with him--which
had been running for more than a year. Bridley, the
marine painter; Manners, who took pupils; Springlake,
the landscapist; and half a dozen others had been in
the habit of dropping into his shop on the lookout for
something good in Dutch cabinets at half-price, or no
price at all, until Felix, without knowing where they
had come from, had put an end to the practice.

"Got a fellow up to Kling's who looks as if he had
been a college athlete, and knows it all. Can't fool
him for a cent," was the talk now, instead of "Keep