The Star-Sent Knaves

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Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied, with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shouldered in a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane’s travel-stained six-foot-one.

“Kelly here tells me you’ve been demanding to see me.” He nodded toward the florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like something that needed oiling. “Something about important information regarding my paintings.”

“That’s right, Mr. Snithian,” Dan said. “I believe I can be of great help to you.”

“Help how? If you’ve got ideas of bilking me…” The red eyes bored into Dan like hot pokers.

“Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guards here—the papers are full of it—”

“Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn’t for the press, I’d have no concern for my paintings today!”

“Yes, sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been left unguarded.”

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