a classic among generations of book vendors still unborn.
Seated at his disorderly desk, caressed by a counterpane of drifting
tobacco haze, he would pore over the manuscript, crossing out,
interpolating, re-arguing, and then referring to volumes on his shelves.
Bock would snore under the chair, and soon Roger's brain would
begin to waver. In the end he would fall asleep over his papers,
wake with a cramp about two o'clock, and creak irritably to a
lonely bed.

All this we mention only to explain how it was that Roger was dozing at his
desk about midnight, the evening after the call paid by Aubrey Gilbert.
He was awakened by a draught of chill air passing like a mountain
brook over his bald pate. Stiffly he sat up and looked about.
The shop was in darkness save for the bright electric over his head.
Bock, of more regular habit than his master, had gone back to his
couch in the kitchen, made of a packing case that had once coffined
a set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

"That's funny," said Roger to himself. "Surely I locked the door?"
He walked to the front of the shop, switching on the cluster of lights
that hung from the ceiling. The door was ajar, but everything
else seemed as usual. Bock, hearing his footsteps, came trotting
out from the kitchen, his claws rattling on the bare wooden floor.
He looked up with the patient inquiry of a dog accustomed to the
eccentricities of his patron.

"I guess I'm getting absent-minded," said Roger.
"I must have left the door open." He closed and locked it.
Then he noticed that the terrier was sniffing in the History alcove,
which was at the front of the shop on the left-hand side.