In the handsome old library of the Barbour family home in Seacliff, San Francisco, on this cloudy, cool, mid-December afternoon, Henry Barbour Esquire sits at his desk, busily scribbling as his writes a letter, with a glow from the floor lamp, shining on his white hair. Deeply absorbed in what he is writing, Henry is unaware of approaching footsteps, but lifts his head slowly as he hears his wife call from the library about a huge box which has arrived from Scotland.