He walked through,
looking neither to the right nor the left, crossed the great library,
with its curved roof, its floor of cedar wood, and its wonderful
stained-glass windows, and entered a smaller room beyond--his absolute
and impenetrable sanctum. He rang the bell for his servant.
"Morrison," he said, "if you allow me to be disturbed by any living
person, on any pretense whatever, until I ring, you lose your place.
Do you understand?"
"Perfectly, sir."
Wingrave locked the door. The next hour belonged to himself alone . . .
When at last he rang the bell, he gave Morrison a note.
"This is to be delivered at once," he said.
The man bowed and withdrew. Wingrave, with his hands behind him,
strolled out into the library. In a remote corner, a small spectacled
person was busy writing at a table. Wingrave crossed the room and
stood before him.
"Are you my librarian?" he asked.
The man rose at once.
"Certainly, sir," he answered. "My name is Woodall. You may have
forgotten it. I am at work now upon a new catalogue."
Wingrave nodded.
"I have a quarto Shakespeare, I think," he said, "that I marked at
Sotheby's, also a manuscript Thomas a Kempis, and a first edition of
Herrick. I should like to see them."
"By all means," the man answered, hurrying to the shelves. "You have,
also, a wonderful rare collection of manuscripts, purchased from the
Abbey St. Jouvain, and a unique Horace.
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