'Indeed? The book used to belong to you?'

'It belonged to me.' He laughed oddly, a tremulous little crow of a laugh,
at the same time stroking his head, as if to deprecate disbelief. 'You
never heard of the sale of the Christopherson library? To be sure, you were
too young; it was in 1860. I have often come across books with my name in
them on the stalls--often. I had happened to notice this just before you
came up, and when I saw you look at it, I was curious to see whether you
would buy it. Pray excuse the freedom I am taking. Lovers of books--don't
you think--?'

The broken question was completed by his look, and when I said that I quite
understood and agreed with him he crowed his little laugh.

'Have you a large library?' he inquired, eyeing me wistfully.

'Oh dear, no. Only a few hundred volumes. Too many for one who has no house
of his own.'

He smiled good-naturedly, bent his head, and murmured just audibly:

'My catalogue numbered 24,718.'

I was growing curious and interested. Venturing no more direct questions, I
asked whether, at the time he spoke of, he lived in London.

'If you have five minutes to spare,' was the timid reply, 'I will show you
my house. I mean'--again the little crowing laugh--'the house which _was_
mine.'