Mr. Jones resumed his excited recommendation. De Medici, half listening, heard the phrases, “marvelous taste,” “carved under a microscope,” “purest ivory....” He smiled as, after fifteen minutes of jockeying, the set went to Meyerson, who had valued it at $1,500. A pair of Ming vases came next. Two Shakespeare folios followed. An antique rosewood chair was offered. De Medici listened and watched with increasing interest. The sale of Ballau’s treasures had stirred no covetousness in him. Yet the scene acquired an exciting significance in his thought. As each of the objects passed under the hammer De Medici found himself coming closer to the memory of his dead friend. “Yes,” he said to himself, “it would seem that these things that are being sold were Victor Ballau. At least the Ballau I knew. Curious, how friendship may be like that—an admiration for the things surrounding a man and for the varied images of him which these things reflect. I’m glad Meyerson has been decent about it. Otherwise the thing would have degenerated into a grab bag bargain rush ... everybody snatching at the remains of poor Ballau.” The place was growing stuffy. De Medici experienced a reaction. The adventure of the night, and the subsequent enigmas which he had pursued, began to take toll. He would wait a few more minutes and leave. The auction, despite his intuitions, was turning out a cut and dried business. He turned to look at the crowd from a new angle, and his eyes lighted on a remarkable figure. An old woman with the face of a witch, her head covered by a black bonnet, her chin resting on the knob of a heavy cane that she clasped in her hands, sat within a few feet of him. Her face was a blur of wrinkles, the nose and chin coming almost together over a toothless mouth. Her little black eyes, however, appeared to be blazing with excitement. “Hm,” De Medici murmured to himself, “a creature of sinister ugliness.” He paused to study her. She was following each of the objects offered the crowd with a fanatical intensity. “Cupidity,” he thought, losing track of the auctioneer’s chatter. “She’ll buy nothing. But the joy of possessing animates her. It’s a way people have of clinging to life—by developing hobbies, by achieving grotesque and concentrated enthusiasms for certain objects. Existence is less complicated for a stamp collector than a social philosopher.” His vague musings were suddenly broken. The witch-like creature had risen from her chair and was brandishing her heavy cane in the air. She stood cackling in a strident voice. “Forty dollars, Mr. Auctioneer, forty dollars....” De Medici watched her push her way forward violently, her large body dislodging an amused and indignant line of men and women. “Forty dollars,” she cried furiously as she moved to the auctioneer’s table, her cane still describing eccentric circles in the air.