It was not until Rankin and the others had left the room that Jewdwine
had courage to raise his head tentatively. He had only seen that young
man's back, and he still clung to the hope that it might not be
Rickman's, after all.

He looked up as steadily as he dared. Oh, no doubt that it was
Rickman's back; no doubt, too, that it was his, Jewdwine's, duty to go
up and speak to him. The young man had changed his place; he was at
his window again, contemplating--as Jewdwine reflected with a pang of
sympathy--the shop. So profound, so sacred almost, was his absorption
that Jewdwine hesitated in his approach.

"_Is_ it Rickman?" he asked, still tentative.

"Mr. Jewdwine!" Rickman's soul leapt to Jewdwine's from the depths;
but the "Mister" marked the space it had had to travel. "When did you
come up?"

"Three hours ago." ("He looks innocent," said Jewdwine to himself.)

"Then you weren't prepared for that?"

Jewdwine followed his fascinated gaze. He smiled faintly.

"You haven't noticed our new departure? We not only purchase
Gentlemen's Libraries, but we sell the works of persons who may or may
not be gentlemen."

Jewdwine felt profoundly uncomfortable. Rickman's face preserved its
inimitable innocence, but he continued to stare fixedly before him.