the man, to what use his inferences might be put. The very
qualities that had made Flamel a useful adviser made him the most
dangerous of accomplices. Glennard felt himself agrope among
alien forces that his own act had set in motion. . . .

Alexa was a woman of few requirements; but her wishes, even in
trifles, had a definiteness that distinguished them from the fluid
impulses of her kind. He knew that, having once asked for the
book, she would not forget it; and he put aside, as an ineffectual
expedient, his momentary idea of applying for it at the
circulating library and telling her that all the copies were out.
If the book was to be bought it had better be bought at once. He
left his office earlier than usual and turned in at the first
book-shop on his way to the train. The show-window was stacked
with conspicuously lettered volumes. "Margaret Aubyn" flashed
back at him in endless repetition. He plunged into the shop and
came on a counter where the name reiterated itself on row after
row of bindings. It seemed to have driven the rest of literature
to the back shelves. He caught up a copy, tossing the money to an
astonished clerk who pursued him to the door with the unheeded
offer to wrap up the volumes.

In the street he was seized with a sudden apprehension. What if
he were to meet Flamel? The thought was intolerable. He called a
cab and drove straight to the station where, amid the palm-leaf
fans of a perspiring crowd, he waited a long half-hour for his
train to start.

He had thrust a volume in either pocket and in the train he dared
not draw them out; but the detested words leaped at him from the