was again working in earnest at his History of the Vikings.
Something would at last come of it; a heap of manuscript attested
his solid progress.

To-day he had come to town only for an hour or two. Glazzard was to
call at half-past six, and they would go together to dine with
Lilian. In his report to her, Quarrier had spoken nothing less than
truth. "The lady with whom you chanced to see me the other day was
my wife. I have been married for a year and a half--a strictly
private matter. Be so good as to respect my confidence." That was
all Glazzard had learnt; sufficient to excite no little curiosity in
the connoisseur.

Denzil's chambers had a marked characteristic; they were full of
objects and pictures which declared his love of Northern lands and
seas. At work he sat in the midst of a little museum. To the bear,
the elk, the seal, he was indebted for comforts and ornaments; on
his shelves were quaint collections of crockery; coins of historical
value displayed themselves in cases on the walls; shoes and garments
of outlandish fashion lay here and there. Probably few private
libraries in England could boast such an array of Scandinavian
literature as was here exhibited. As a matter of course the rooms
had accumulated even more dirt than one expects in a bachelor's
retreat; they were redolent of the fume of many pipes.

When Glazzard tapped at the inner door and entered, his friend, who
sat at the writing-table in evening costume, threw up his arms,
stretched himself, and yawned noisily.

"Working at your book?" asked the other.