"Good-morning to you, gentlemen," said Mr. Marchmont, shaking hands cordially. "I have brought a client of mine to see you, and when I tell you that his name is Solomon Löwe, it will be unnecessary for me to say what our business is."
"Oddly enough," replied Thorndyke, "we were, at the very moment when you knocked, discussing the bearings of his case."
"It is a horrible affair!" burst in Mr. Löwe. "I am distracted! I am ruined! I am in despair!"
He banged the bandbox down on the table, and flinging himself into a chair, buried his face in his hands.
"Come, come," remonstrated Marchmont, "we must be brave, we must be composed. Tell Dr. Thorndyke your story, and let us hear what he thinks of it."
He leaned back in his chair, and looked at his client with that air of patient fortitude that comes to us all so easily when we contemplate the misfortunes of other people.
"You must help us, sir," exclaimed Löwe, starting up again—"you must, indeed, or I shall go mad. But I shall tell you what has happened, and then you must act at once. Spare no effort and no expense. Money is no object—at least, not in reason," he added, with native caution. He sat down once more, and in perfect English, though with a slight German accent, proceeded volubly: "My brother Isaac is probably known to you by name."
Thorndyke nodded.
"He is a great collector, and to some extent a dealer—that is to say, he makes his hobby a profitable hobby."
"What does he collect?" asked Thorndyke.