Some one with an interest in books had sat there; some one who
expected to spend sufficient time over these old tomes to feel the
need of a chair. Had this interest been a general one or had it
centered in a particular volume? I ran my eye over the shelves
within reach, possibly with an idea of settling this question, and
though my knowledge of books is limited I could see that these were
what one might call rarities. Some of them contained specimens of
black letter, all moldy and smothered in dust; in others I saw
dates of publication which placed them among volumes dear to a
collector's heart. But none of them, so far as I could see, gave
any evidence of having been lately handled; and anxious to waste no
time on puerile details, I hastily quitted my chair, and was
proceeding to turn my attention elsewhere, when I noticed on an
upper shelf, a book projecting slightly beyond the others. Instantly
my foot was on the chair and the book in my hand. Did I find it of
interest? Yes, but not on account of its contents, for they were
pure Greek to me; but because it lacked the dust on its upper edge
which had marked every other volume I had handled. This, then, was
what had attracted the unknown to these shelves, this - let me see
if I can remember its title - Disquisition upon Old Coastlines.
Pshaw! I was wasting my time. What had such a dry compendium as
this to do with the body lying in its blood a few steps behind me,
or with the hand which had put out the candle upon this dreadful
deed? Nothing. I replaced the book, but not so hastily as to push
it one inch beyond the position in which I found it. For, if it
had a tale to tell, then was it my business to leave that tale to
be read by those who understood books better than I did.

My next move was toward the little table holding the candelabrum
with the glittering pendants. This table was one of a nest standing