"In a minute, Bob. Let's continue this session first. You say Bruce took these letters home Tuesday night." "Yes. I gathered he saw Owens again on Wednesday and returned them with the remark that he saw no reason to change his mind. There must have been quite an argument. I was at the dojo that evening, didn't see him till Thursday night, as a matter of fact. Then, of course, you had him and me and some of our colleagues--and Owens--up here for that stag party." "I collect scholars," grinned Clayton. Kintyre wondered if it might not literally be true. In the upper levels of the European business world, where Clayton spent half his time, a man was not respected for his money alone; he would get further if he could show some solid intellectual achievement. Clayton was hardly a social climber, but he must know the practical value of such kudos. Any rich oaf of an American could buy paintings. Clayton was a bit more imaginative: he took up incunabula. And he invited specialists in, gave them liquor and sandwiches, turned them loose on each other, and sat around picking up the lingo. _And what's wrong with that?_ thought Kintyre. _Any Renaissance dignitary patronized artists and scholars in much the same way, for much the same reasons. So the Renaissance had its Leonardo, Rafael, Michelangelo--We throw our creative people out into the market place to peddle themselves to the general public. What do we have? Rock 'n' Roll._ He jerked back to awareness. The other man was speaking: "--chemical tests. Owens said he wasn't going to let priceless relics be destroyed. It sounded phony to me." "That was a real dogfight those two had." Kintyre shook his head admiringly. "Never mind that now. Have you any information on Bruce's later movements?" "Why, Friday he and I were both working hard. Saturday too he must have been. Yes, Friday afternoon was the last time I saw Bruce alive. We only said hello in passing. Margery Towne tells me he was home that evening and Saturday afternoon, otherwise apparently at the University." "And that's all we can find out?" Clayton grimaced. "Not a hell of a lot, is it? Unless Miss Towne can tell--" "One more thing," said Kintyre. "It may not be relevant. But her apartment was burgled last night." The cigar dropped from Clayton's mouth. He bent over to pick it up, jerkily. His movements smoothed as Kintyre watched; when he raised himself and ground out the butt, his craggy face was under control. "Surprised?" murmured Kintyre. "Yes. Of course. What happened? What was taken?" "That's the odd part. Nothing she knew of. Someone had broken in and made a hooraw's nest; but he, she, or it hadn't taken any silverware or jewelry, nothing." "Uh." Clayton looked at his hands, folded in his lap, then back again, sharply. "How about papers?" "We thought of that. The desks and drawers had been rooted through, all right, but nothing seemed to be missing."