to open and close freely. So, after the others, he hurried up the stairs.

These ascended straight between the walls until a sharp curve at the top
brought them to a door now wide open. Within the room beyond stood the
party, exclaiming at the tops of their voices.

They might well exclaim. Of all the guesses, none had come within
distant range of the real thing.

The room was that of a collector of old books, and it had been closed and
left precisely as its former owner had arranged it, so far as could be
judged by its present appearance. A faded Turkey carpet covered the
floor; sun-rotted and dusty draperies hung at the windows, which were of
the same sort as those in the attic, close under the eaves, and shut in
by a pattern of ironwork. All around the walls stood bookcases, filled
with a large collection of books, the greater proportion of them of an
age suggestive, to the inexperienced eye, of worthlessness, to the more
discerning, of value. An antique desk and a few straight-backed chairs
were all the other furnishings of the room, but of these it needed none.
Even in its dust-covered condition it was a room to command respectful
consideration.

As Jarvis came in, Max was studying the rows of books. He turned about
with a small calf-bound volume in his hand, and his eye fell on
Jarvis, entering.

"Jarve," he exclaimed, "I believe this is treasure-trove, sure enough! If
this isn't a 'first edition,' I'll eat the book, covers and all!"

Jarvis hurried to his side. He took the book, examined the fly-leaf, and