MR. JARRAD was a tall, lean man, with very quiet eyes, an observant air, and an impassive face. His clothing was unobtrusive and seemed to have arrived at that point of age at which clothing shows no further sign of wear. He was standing near the fireplace of an old-fashioned, oak-paneled room, and from his expression one might assume that he beheld its entire contents at a glance. Presently he fingered a bowl on the gray stone mantelpiece.
“One blue six-inch Delft, slightly chipped in two places on the upper edge,” he drawled.
Another man, rather younger, somewhat fatter, was seated at a table. He had something of Mr. Jarrad’s world-weary manner, but the process had not been carried quite so far, and he looked rather less diffident. He raised his eyes from a large book spread open before him and nodded.
“On the upper edge,” he repeated mechanically.
Mr. Jarrad put his ear to the clock. “One black marble timepiece, apparently in good order, lower left-hand corner damaged, complete with key. Keyhole slightly scratched.”
“Yes, we have that.”
The older man paused, took a swift inspection of his surroundings, pulled in his lower lip, and nodded thoughtfully. “Matter of fact, Mr. Dawkins, when I compare this room with several thousand others I’ve inspected, I rather like it. Wouldn’t mind having it myself, and in our profession that’s about as far as one can go.”
Dawkins put down his pen. “I had an idea that by this time you were past liking anything in the line of furnishings.”
“Two twelve-inch pewter candlesticks, all feet bent. You’re not right there. After thirty years of inventory work one sometimes becomes thankful in a sort of negative way for the things one does not see. This is one of those times. I generally look about, take the whole show in with one squint, and ask myself why people commit such crimes. Did you ever reflect how much humanity is run by things, just things?”
“No, I haven’t, and I don’t think they are. Things have no influence, no effect. They can’t run anything.”