“Yes.”
“Take those stairs. Go to the third floor. At the last landing go straight ahead. His door is the fourth to your right.”
“Thank you,” and Florence hurried on her way.
A moment later she was knocking at the door of the great archaeologist’s studio.
“Why, it’s Miss Huyler!” he exclaimed as he opened the door to her. “Come right in. What may I do for you?”
Ruthaford Cole was one of those rare men who have studied their subject so thoroughly and who have traveled so widely in search of further knowledge that they have no need to assume a false air of importance and dignity to make an impression. Under middle age, smooth-shaven, smiling, he carried the attitude of a boy who has picked up a few facts here and there and who is eager to learn more.
But show him a bit of carving from the Congo and he is all smiles; “Oh! Yes, a very nice bit of modern work. Good enough, but done to sell to traders. Possesses no historical value, you know.”
A bit of ivory from the coast of Alaska, rudely scratched here and there, a hole torn out here, an end broken off there, browned with age, is presented and he answers, his face lighting up with genuine joy, “Now there is really a rare specimen. Handle of a bow-drill; made long before the white man came, I’d say. Tells stories, that does. Each crudely scratched representation of reindeer, whale, wolf or bear has its meaning.”
That was the type of man Cole was. Frank and friendly to all, he gave evidence in an unassuming way, of a tremendous fund of knowledge.
Now, as Florence unwrapped the blue candlestick, he watched the movement of her hands with much the same look that a terrier wears when watching his master dig out a rat. Once the candlestick was in his hand, he held it as a merchant might a bit of costly and fragile china-ware.