engrossing and don't leave much time for general reading."

"Naturally," she said. "You can't specialise in everything. But if you
would care to see how the business of a literary jackal is conducted, I
will show you my notes."

I accepted the offer eagerly (not, I fear, from pure enthusiasm for the
subject), and she brought forth from the bag four blue-covered, quarto
note-books, each dealing with one of the four dynasties from the
fourteenth to the seventeenth. As I glanced through the neat and orderly
extracts with which they were filled we discussed the intricacies of the
peculiarly difficult and confused period that they covered, gradually
lowering our voices as Mr. Bellingham's eyes closed and his head fell
against the back of his chair. We had just reached the critical reign of
Apepa II when a resounding snore broke in upon the studious quiet of
the room and sent us both into a fit of silent laughter.

"Your conversation has done its work," she whispered as I stealthily
picked up my hat, and together we stole on tiptoe to the door, which she
opened without a sound. Once outside, she suddenly dropped her bantering
manner and said quite earnestly:

"How kind it was of you to come and see him to-night! You have done him
a world of good, and I am most grateful. Good night!"

She shook hands with me really cordially, and I took my way down the
creaking stairs in a whirl of happiness that I was quite at a loss to
account for.