He knew pictures; that is, good pictures.

He had had an invisible hand in more than one clever transaction in which handsome pictures alleged to have been smuggled in, Gainsboroughs and Romneys and such (there had been most profit for him in handling the forgeries of these particular masters), had been put, with an air of great secrecy, into the hands of divers newly rich gentlemen who believed they were getting masterpieces at bargain prices through this evasion of customs laws.
"Nuts," chuckled Old Jimmie, "this junk wouldn't be so funny if you didn't seem to believe you were really painting." "Junk! Funny!" Hunt swung around, one big hand closed about Jimmie's lean neck and the other seized his thin shoulder.

"You grandfather of the devil and all his male progeny, you talk like that and I'll chuck you through the window!" Old Jimmie grinned.

The grip of the big hands of the painter, though powerful, was light.

They all knew that the loud ravings of the painter never presaged violence.