“Well, come and sit down, Mr. Ridgeway,” the elder Yost said impatiently. “I hope you’re not planning to linger by the door there until you’re as old as I.”

The younger Yost nodded his head toward the matching wing-backed chair next to his father, and Ridgeway moved forward and stopped next to the old man. He was dressed in a warm-looking wool robe tied at the sash. The bottoms of pajamas protruded from beneath the hem of the robe. His feet were clad in slippers. Seth looked closely at him and found his round, fleshy face closer to that of the two sons who managed the gallery than to his eldest son, the lean Swiss army colonel. As Ridgeway leaned over to extend his hand, he heard the old man’s son back quietly out of the room and shut the door behind him.

“Mr. Ridgeway.” Jacob Yost took Seth’s hand and shook it with a surprisingly firm grip. “Welcome to Zurich; welcome to my home. I apologize for not getting up, but the arthritis in my knees has grown savage of late.”

Seth expressed his sympathy and sat down in the chair to Yost’s left. As he did, he noticed Yost’s hand resting on the arm of the chair. It was horribly disfigured and scarred and lacked a thumb. Seth politely averted his eyes, but not before Yost had seen his look of shock. He smiled wryly at Ridgeway.

“This,” he held up his left hand, “is part of my story. But first I want to hear yours.” Yost shifted in his chair to be more comfortable as he looked at Seth. “As I understand it, you are looking for your wife, the woman who is supposed to have a painting known as The Home of the Lady Our Redeemer?”

Seth nodded. “She disappeared six months ago, from our room at the Eden au Lac.”

“I have heard,” Yost said. Yost’s eyes seemed to turn inward for a moment. In the silence left by his pause, the study became filled with the pops and crackles of the wood fire and with the steady rumble of the crane just outside the window. Seth looked toward the window and through the sheer curtains saw the arm of the crane as it passed by almost at window level.

Finally Yost pulled himself from his reverie. “I shall never forget the picture,” he said. “And I will never forget the men who brought it in to me.” He stopped abruptly. “But that, too, is part of my story. And I want to hear yours first, so please, begin.”

While Seth related his account of the past six months, Yost pulled a pouch of tobacco from under the pile of papers on the side table. Seth noticed the packet was stamped with the name of the tobacconist just down the Rami Strasse. As Seth spoke, Yost pulled a large briar pipe from the folds of his robe and carefully filled, tamped, and lit it. Fragrant plumes of smoke drifted up from the bowl of the pipe and wafted mostly toward the fireplace.