"You wished to speak to me," said Gordon. "Pray sit down."
The elderly stranger did so, and immediately the atmosphere was impregnated with an odour of strong tobacco.
"It is not as a patient I came," he said. "I take the liberty to occupy some of your valuable time. If you are in one hurry--"
"Not in the least," Bruce replied. "I have half an hour at your disposal. Your case----"
"Ach, but I have no case, I am not what you call a patient. It is another matter--a matter of sentiment."
Gordon bowed again; evidently a lunatic of the harmless type.
"Some days ago you bought a picture," Herr Kronin proceeded. "It was a small picture of the early Dutch School, signed J. Halbin. A woman nursing a sick child, and the father looking on. Not a valuable picture."
"Certainly not," Bruce agreed. "I happen to know an expert who told me so. It took my fancy and I gave ten pounds for it, which, I understand, is about a tenth of its full value."
Herr Max Kronin nodded approvingly.
"That is so. Otherwise I should not be here tonight. As pictures go, £100 is not much. But that picture belonged to my mother's family--in fact, she is descended from the J. Halbin who painted it. It was sold some years ago at a time of great distress. We were sorry. Sentimental, you say, but it would be a bad world without sentiment. My sister, she never ceased to mourn over that picture. When the good time comes she try to get him back. But he has disappeared. Picture my delight when I see him in a little time ago in a shop window. I go home for my chequebook--for I am not a poor man, Herr Bruce, now--and I hurry back to the shop. On my way I send a telegram to my sister to say the picture is found. When I reach the shop you have beaten me by ten minutes."