"We met yesterday, Mr. Camber, you may recall. Having chanced to come
across a contribution of yours of the _Occult Review_, I have
availed myself of your invitation to drop in for a chat."

His expression changed immediately and the sombre eyes lighted up.

"Ah, of course," he cried, "you are a student of the transcendental.
Forgive my seeming rudeness, Mr. Knox, but indeed my memory is of the
poorest. Pray come in, sir; your visit is very welcome."

He held the door wide open, and inclined his head in a gesture of
curious old-world courtesy which was strange in so young a man. And
congratulating myself upon the happy thought which had enabled me to
win such instant favour, I presently found myself in a study which I
despair of describing.

In some respects it resembled the lumber room of an antiquary, whilst
in many particulars it corresponded to the interior of one of those
second-hand bookshops which abound in the neighbourhood of Charing
Cross Road. The shelves with which it was lined literally bulged with
books, and there were books on the floor, books on the mantelpiece, and
books, some open and some shut, some handsomely bound, and some having
the covers torn off, upon every table and nearly every chair in the
place.

Volume seven of Burton's monumental "Thousand Nights and a Night" lay
upon a littered desk before which I presumed Mr. Camber had been seated
at the time of my arrival. Some wet vessel, probably a cup of tea or
coffee, had at some time been set down upon the page at which this