"I've seen Dr. Browl—and I've seen it."
"Seen what?"
The dealer's cheeks quivered. "The thing. The thing that does it!"
The art experts all stared at the speaker. "Then he is the one?" someone asked.
"Yes. And he is willing to see us tomorrow afternoon...."
The Wizard of Light occupied the four topmost floors of a mid-town apartment building. Most of that space was used for his laboratories (the city having granted him special permission), from which had issued many important inventions, although none in the last few years.
Dr. Browl received his uneasy guests in a huge room whose far wall, opposite the main entranceway, was composed entirely of glass. It was, in fact, a gigantic window, which afforded a splendid view of the city.
The art dealers and exhibitors were hardly in a frame of mind to appreciate the scene, however, as they filed into the room and at their host's direction, seated themselves on chairs and sofas arranged in rows off to one side.
"All here?" asked the Wizard, searching the apprehensive faces before him with his uncertain old eyes. Someone muttered in the affirmative, and the Wizard broke into a high-pitched cackling. It confirmed the worst fears of his visitors. They were dealing with a demented genius who would be beyond the persuasions of reason.