fact I'm runnin' straight these days. I'm a Art Importer now. Me an' Cambridge Charlie 've doubled up. I'm a canvas runner between here an' London."
"And what's a canvas runner?"
Sadie studied her eyebrows in the mirror of her vanity-bag.
"These Eyetalians don't allow an ol' master to be taken out o' the country. We've got a Dago named Muselli gatherin' up what he can. Then I've tied down one o' the best copyists in Rome here, doin' dooplicates of the gallery pictures. We take the copy, scaled up or down to the size we order, an' frame it. But before we frame it we fit our ol' master canvas under the gallery copy, an' about once a month I skip over to London wit' the goods. Then we fake a story about findin' a new Roobens, or a Raphael Madonna bein' dug out o' some moth-eaten English collection. Then we re-ship to our New York agent, payin' full duty, mind you, an' divvyin' on the rake-off. Ain't that square enough? "
"Nothing could be more honest!"
Sadie disregarded the ironic note in Kestner's remark.
"It's a darned sight more genteel'n the sable game I stuck to for more'n a month," she argued.
"The sable game?"
"Yep! High-Collar Connors rigged me out wit' a seven-hundred dollar set o' sables—stole from a Milwaukee theatre-box. I'd blow into a high-class hotel, register, an' leave me furs in the room. High-Collar'd watch me leave the room, an' then slip in an' pinch the furs. Then I'd make a big noise t' the
