I

Marcus Gard sat at his library table apparently in rapt contemplation of a pair of sixteenth century bronze inkwells, strange twisted shapes, half man, half beast, bearing in their breasts twin black pools.  But his thoughts were far from their grotesque beauty—­centered on vast schemes of destruction and reconstruction.  The room was still, so quiet, in spite of its proximity to the crowded life of Fifth Avenue, that one divined its steel construction and the doubled and trebled casing of its many windows.  The walls, hung with green Genoese velvet, met a carved and coffered ceiling, and touched the upper shelf of the breast-high bookcases that lined the walls.  No picture broke the simple unity of color.  Here and there a Donatello bronze silhouetted a slim shape, or a Florentine portrait bust smiled with veiled meaning from the quiet shadows.  The shelves were rich in books in splendid bindings, gems of ancient workmanship or modern luxury, for the Great Man had the instinct of the masterpiece.

The door opened softly, and the secretary entered, a look of uncertainty on his handsome young face.  The slight sound of his footfall disturbed the master’s contemplation.  He looked up, relieved to be drawn for a moment from his reflection.

“What is it, Saunders?” he asked, leaning back and grasping the arms of his chair with a gesture of control familiar to him.

“Mrs. Martin Marteen is here, very anxious to see you.  She let me understand it was about the Heim Vandyke.  I knew you were interested, so I ventured, Mr. Gard—­”

“Yes, yes—­quite right.  Let her come in here.”  He rose as he spoke, shook his cuffs, pulled down his waistcoat and ran a hand over his bald spot and silvery hair.  Marcus Gard was still a handsome man.  He remained standing, and, as the door reopened, advanced to meet his guest.  She came forward, smiling, and, taking a white-gloved hand from her sable muff, extended it graciously.

“Very nice of you to receive me, Mr. Gard,” she said, and the tone of her mellow voice was clear and decisive.  “I know what a busy man you are.”

“At your service.”  He bowed, waved her to a seat and sank once more into his favorite chair, watching her the while intently.  If she had come to negotiate the sale of the Heim Vandyke, let her set forth the conditions.  It was no part of his plan to show how much he coveted the picture.  In the meantime she was very agreeable to look at.  Her strong, regular features suggested neither youth nor age.  She was of the goddess breed.  Every detail of the lady’s envelope was perfect—­velvet and fur, a glimpse of exquisite antique lace, a sheen of pearl necklace, neither so large as to be ostentatious nor so small as to suggest economy.  The Great Man’s instinct of the masterpiece stirred.  “What can I do for you?” he said, as she showed no further desire to explain her visit.