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them whispered: “I understand he’s given the arrowheads to the Museum.”
    “He must be stony broke,” whispered a female voice.
    “Yeah? Maybe.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Shh! Isn’t that him in front of us?”
    Val’s hands were tight in her lap. She heard her father expel a long, labored breath. People were such pigs. Vultures! Wheeling over the carrion! Even that Ruhig person had had the unadulterated gall to attend the auction. He was sitting well down front, beaming at all the hostile glances converging on his pudgy cheeks.
    “Also withdrawn is number seven-three, a miscellaneous lot of sporting equipment—golf clubs, bags, fencing foils, tennis rackets, et cetera. ”
    She felt Rhys stir with surprise. “No, pop,” she whispered. “It’s not a mistake.”
    “But I included them—”
    “I withdrew them. You’re not going to be stripped bare!” He groped for her hand and found it.
    “Everything else will be sold on this floor regardless of bid. Everything is in superb condition. The art-objects and antiques have all been expertized and found genuine. Each lot is fully described in your catalogue. …”
    Come on . Get started. … It was worse, far worse, than Val had imagined it would be. Oh, Walter, why don’t you move down here and sit by me and hold my hand, too!
    “Lot number one,” said the auctioneer in a brisk chant. “Lowestoft china, 1787, with the New York insignia, design female and eagle, two hundred pieces, rare antiquity and historic value, who’ll start it with five thousand dollars? Do I hear five thousand on lot number one? Five thousand?”
    “Two thousand,” called out a cadaverous man with the predatory look of a rabid collector.
    The auctioneer groaned. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. A crude imitation of these superb antiques brought seven thousand in a private sale only a few years ago—”
    “Twenty-five hundred,” said a calm, rather husky voice from the rear.
    “Three thousand,” droned the cadaverous man.
    “Thirty-five,” said the husky voice.
    “Thirty-five! Who says four thousand?”
    “Four thousand,” said Mr. Anatole Ruhig.
    “Five? Do I hear five?”
    “Forty-five hundred,” said the husky voice.
    “Forty-five bid! Five, any one? You, sir? Mr. Ruhig? Forty-five once, forty-five twice, forty-five… Sold to the gentleman for forty-five hundred dollars.
    Robbery! screamed Val silently. The Lowestoft had come down in the family. It was worth many, many thousands. Robber! She craned with the others to see the husky-voiced thief. He was a spare young man with a close black beard covering his cheeks and chin, and he wore pince-nez glasses. Val after one malevolent look turned her eyes front. Robber!
    Lot number two went up; Val heard the rattle of auctioneer’s patter and bids only dimly. Poor Rhys was so rigid. It was horrible having to be here. … When the voices stopped it appeared that the husky one belonging to the bearded young man had again prevailed. The beast—buying poor mother’s b-bedroom suite!
    Lot number three—history repeated itself. There were murmurs from the floor, and the auctioneer looked enchanted. Mr. Anatole Ruhig, who seemed to have a passion for antiques, looked definitely unenchanted. Black looks were hurled at the unconquerable bidder. … Far in the rear, Mr. Walter Spaeth sat slumped in a chair, his right hand absently sketching on the back of an envelope the head of the bearded young man, who was sitting in the row before.
    Lot number four. Number five. Six. Seven. …
    “It’s a frame-up,” said some one loudly. “He doesn’t give any one else a chance!”
    “Quiet! Please! Ladies and gentlemen—”
    “This isn’t an auction, it’s a monologue!”
    Three people rose and went out in a dudgeon. Mr. Anatole Ruhig was by this time regarding the villain of the piece thoughtfully. The cadaverous one rose and left too. Val looked around in a panic; Rhys frowned at the greedy one.
    Lot number eight, nine, number