Algernon Blackwood

“ What was a little queer⁠—it struck Milligan so, at any rate⁠—was an idea that began to grow in him from the very first week of his tenancy.
“That might be the very drawing the fellow wrote about,” occurred to him one night as he laboured at a lurid scenario which was to make his fortune. “Not impossible at all. It’s an old picture probably. Exactly what Hearn described, too. I wonder! Why not?”
Why not, indeed? A fellow⁠—especially a literary fellow⁠—should use his imagination. Milligan used his. Sometimes he used it in prolonged labour till the early hours. ”

“ I’m not in China, as you think I am. This”⁠—he tapped his chest, the chest of a successful business man⁠—“is not me. I’m not Milligan. Milligan is in that picture with the Chink. He’s in that boat. Sitting beside that Chink. Motionless. Being stared at by a succession of lodgers. Sitting in that stiff little boat. Very tiny. Not dead, but captive. Sitting without breath. Without feeling. Painted, yet alive. Caught on the surface of that placid Chinese lake until time or death dissolve the drawing⁠—”
I thought he was going to faint, but, oddly enough, I did not think him merely mad. ”

“ There was only one figure⁠—the Chink. He sat alone in the little boat. He was rowing, not pushing; his back was to the room.
The dealer said the drawing was worth a shilling; the chemist said nothing; I, too, said nothing; but the psychic investigator turned sharply and complained that I was hurting him. My hand, it seems, had clutched the shoulder nearest to me, and it happened to be his. I allowed him to leave when the other two left⁠ ⁠...
I was alone. I remembered the telegram. More to steady my mind than for any interest I felt in it, my fingers tore it open. ”

“ I mentioned another figure too⁠—the figure in the boat.
“That single figure,” I explained in as calm a tone as I could muster, “is so good, you see. The Chinese artists never overcrowded their paintings. Now, if⁠—instead of that single figure⁠—there were two”⁠—I moved closer to the picture, hoping she would follow⁠—“the value,” I went on, “would, of course, be less.”
Mrs. Bostock had followed me. I had tempted her greed; I had tested her truth as well. We stood side by side immediately beneath the drawing. ”

“ These Chinese drawings⁠—some of ’em⁠—are very rare, I believe.”
The little picture was worth perhaps two shillings, and he knew it; but he had found his way to Mrs. Bostock’s heart, and, incidentally, had persuaded her to take a shilling off the rent. The picture, he felt sure, had been stolen by her late husband, a sea captain. To her it was a kind of nest-egg. If she ever found herself in difficulties, it would fetch money. Milligan, by chance, had stumbled upon what he called a “good line.” ”

“ He used it to end the chat with.
“I like your picture so much,” he observed. “It’s nice to live with.” He put it straight, he flicked dust from the frame with his handkerchief. “It’s so much better than these modem things. ”