“Prize possession. That’s rich. You don’t even like reading,” Mrs. Goldman said.

“I like books. I like the look and smell of old books,” he said. “Do you know who owned this library before me? Another English lord. Probably one of your relations.” (He looked at me, then Darcy.) “He was having financial troubles, so I bought the whole thing, lock, stock and barrel. Had the shelves shipped over here and reassembled just as it was. I even found windows from an old country house in England.”

I noticed then that the windows had been set into alcoves, to give the impression of thick castle walls, I supposed. Each of the alcoves was hung with heavy red drapes. The windows were clearly very old, maybe even Tudor—small panes of imperfect glass between heavy oak frames.

“There. That’s the El Greco,” Cy said, drawing our attention away from the windows and the stunning view beyond. He went over to a small painting now propped up against one of the shelves. It was a Madonna and child with the painter’s characteristic long faces and elongated hands. It was done in muted reds and blues and the woman looked incredibly sad, but it was lovely in its own way.

“Looks rather dreary to me,” Mrs. Goldman said. “Couldn’t you have found something more cheerful?”

“You wait until you find out what it’s worth, honey. Then you’ll suddenly decide it’s lovely and you have to have it in your living room in New York to show to the Hadassah ladies.”

“I don’t think they’d take kindly to a Madonna and child,” she said. “Even if they are by El Greco.”

Cy put down the painting then moved over to the polished library table. “I thought I might put the candlesticks in here on the table so I can enjoy them when I’m working,” Mr. Goldman said. A plain wooden case now lay on it. He opened this and took out a candlestick. There was a gasp from the group. It was amazing—a little too ornate for my taste but brilliant nonetheless. It was about eighteen inches high, and around its base was a complete country scene all in gold, with young girls dancing among trees. Curled garlands of golden flowers rose up its sides. And dotted everywhere were precious stones—ruby and emerald centers for the flowers, diamonds, sapphires, topaz, and lapis adorned the girls and the trees, all sparkling in the light of the chandelier that hung from the ceiling.

“Pretty, huh?” He held it up to us.

“I hope you’ve got it properly insured,” Helen Goldman said. “That thing’s worth a fortune.”