in which I was interested. The house was separated from the street by
a low wall and railing, the whole not more than five feet high. It was
perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the garden, but
the window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no waterpipe or
anything which could help the most active man to climb it. More puzzled
than ever, I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study
five minutes when the maid entered to say that a person desired to
see me. To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book
collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white
hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least, wedged under
his right arm.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange, croaking
voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into
this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll just
step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit
gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much
obliged to him for picking up my books."

"You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May I ask how you knew who I
was?"

"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours,
for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street,
and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir.
Here's BRITISH BIRDS, and CATULLUS, and THE HOLY WAR--a bargain, every