Chapter III

The Levices' house stood well back upon its grounds, almost with an air of
reserve in comparison with the rows of stately, bay-windowed houses that
faced it and hedged it in on both sides. But the broad, sweeping lawns,
the confusion of exquisite roses and heliotropes, the open path to the
veranda, whereon stood an hospitable garden settee and chair, the long
French windows open this summer's morning to sun and air, told an inviting
tale.

As Dr. Kemp ascended the few steps leading to the front door, he looked
around approvingly.

"Not a bad berth for the grave little bookworm," he mused as he rang the
bell.

It was immediately answered by the "grave little bookworm" in person.

"I've been on the lookout for you for the past hour," he explained, leading
him into the library and turning the key of the door as they entered.

It was a cosey room, not small or low, as the word would suggest, but large
and airy; the cosiness was supplied by comfortable easy-chairs, a lounge or
two, a woman's low rocker, an open piano, a few soft engravings on the
walls, and books in cases, books on tables, books on stands, books
everywhere. Two long lace-draped windows let in a flood of searching
sunlight that brought to light not an atom of dust in the remotest corner.
It is the prerogative of every respectable Jewess to keep her house as
clean as if at any moment a search-warrant for dirt might be served upon