THORNDYKE was not a newspaper reader. He viewed with extreme disfavor all scrappy and miscellaneous forms of literature, which, by presenting a disorderly series of unrelated items of information, tended, he considered, to destroy the habit of consecutive mental effort.
"It is most important," he once remarked to me, "habitually to pursue a definite train of thought, and to pursue it to a finish, instead of fitting indolently from one uncompleted topic to another, as the newspaper reader is so apt to do. Still, there is no harm in a daily paper—so long as you don't read it."
Accordingly, he patronized a morning paper, and his method of dealing with it was characteristic. After breakfast, the paper was laid on the table, together with a blue pencil and a pair of office shears. A preliminary glance through the sheets enabled him to mark with the pen those paragraphs that were to be read; these were presently cut out and looked through, after which they were either thrown away or aside to be pasted in an indexed book. The whole proceeding occupied, on an average quarter of an hour.
On the morning of which I am now speaking he was thus engaged. The pencil had done its work, and the snick of the shears announced the final stage. Presently he paused with newly excised cutting between his fingers, and, after glancing at it for a moment, he handed to me.
Another art robbery," he remarked. "Mysterious affairs, these—as to motive, I mean. You can’t melt down a picture or an ivory carving, and you can't put them on the market as they stand. The very qualities that give them their value make them totally unnegotiable."
"Yet, I suppose," said I, "the really inveterate collector—the pottery or stamp maniac, for instance—will buy these contraband goods, even though he dare not show them."
"Probably. No doubt the cupiditas babendi, the mere desire to possess, is the motive force, rather than any intelligent purpose——"
The discussion was at this point interrupted by a knock at the door, and a moment later my colleague admitted two gentlemen. One of these I recognized as Mr. Marchmont, a solicitor for whom we had occasionally acted; the other was a stranger—a typical Hebrew of the blond type—good-looking, faultlessly dressed, carrying a bandbox, and obviously in a state of the most extreme agitation.
"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 Lowe, it will be unnecessary for me to say what our business is."
"Oddly enough," replied Thorndyke, "we were, at the very moment that you knocked, discussing the bearings of his case."
"It is a horrible affair!" burst in Mr. Lowe. "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 Lowe, starting up again—"you must indeed, or I shall go mad! But I will 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.