Marcus Gard sat at his library table apparently in rapt contemplation ofa pair of sixteenth century bronze inkwells, strange twisted shapes, halfman, half beast, bearing in their breasts twin black pools. But histhoughts were far from their grotesque beauty--centered on vast schemes ofdestruction and reconstruction. The room was still, so quiet, in spite ofits proximity to the crowded life of Fifth Avenue, that one divined itssteel construction and the doubled and trebled casing of its many windows.The walls, hung with green Genoese velvet, met a carved and cofferedceiling, and touched the upper shelf of the breast-high bookcases thatlined the walls. No picture broke the simple unity of color. Here and therea Donatello bronze silhouetted a slim shape, or a Florentine portrait bustsmiled with veiled meaning from the quiet shadows. The shelves were rich inbooks in splendid bindings, gems of ancient workmanship or modern luxury,for the Great Man had the instinct of themasterpiece.
The door opened softly, and the secretary entered, a look of uncertaintyon his handsome young face. The slight sound of his footfall disturbed themaster's contemplation. He looked up, relieved to be drawn for a momentfrom his reflection.
"What is it, Saunders?" he asked, leaning back and grasping the arms ofhis chair with a gesture of control familiar to him.
"Mrs. Martin Marteen is here, very anxious to see you. She let meunderstand it was about the Heim Vandyke. I knew you were interested, so Iventured, 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 baldspot and silvery hair. Marcus Gard was still a handsome man. He remainedstanding, and, as the door reopened, advanced to meet his guest. She cameforward, 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 ofher mellow voice was clear and decisive. "I know what a busy ma