Behind the counter, in the midst of his treasures, mostly spurious, sat the owner of the shop I. Antonides, smoking a cigarette and apparently lost in reverie.
An old man, a very old man, was Antonides. A Greek of the modern Greeks, with the head of a prophet and the hand of a money changer.
Behind that parchment-coloured forehead lay a knowledge of ancient and modern art—profound almost as the subject itself.
Beauty of craftsmanship appealed to Antonides. He worshipped the Venus of Milo, not for the divine beauty of her form, but for the cunning of the hand that wrought her. A rose had no power to move his soul, but a goblin by Calot, were it in the best style of that master, made him cry out with pleasure.
He worshipped art for the sake of art, and he worshipped money for the sake of money.
His fortune was reputed to be half a million, and he lived on a pound a week.
He was very frank, with that frankness which sometimes veils the deepest and most profound deceit; he had no loves or hates, no heart, no wife, no children or relations. Only his money and his profound knowledge of men and art.
There were many curiosities for sale in the shop of Antonides, but the most curious of them all was Antonides, also on sale—at a price.
He nodded to Freyberger.
“I want you to do a little job for me, Mr Antonides.”