Ohe HAUNTED BOOKSHOP m mm m CHRISTOPHER MORLEY Hyme enjoy sharing my books as I do my friends, asking only that you treat them well and see them safely home Chery Lynn Rogner Asc THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP CL COPYRIGHT, 1918, 1919, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY, ALL RIGHTS RESBRVED. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO THE BOOKSELLERS BE PLEASED to know, most worthy, that this little book is dedicated to you in affection and respect. The faults of the composition are plain to you all. I began merely in the hope of saying something further of the adventures of ROGER MIFFLIN, whose exploits in “Parnassus on Wheels” some of you have been kind enough to applaud. But then came Miss Titania Chapman, and my young advertising man fell in love with her, and the two of them rather ran away with the tale. I think I should explain that the passage in Chapter VIII, dealing with the delightful talent of Mr. Sidney Drew, was written before the lamented death of that charming artist. But as it was a sincere tribute, sincerely meant, I have seen no reason for removing it. Chapters I, II, III, and VI appeared originally in The Bookman, and to the editor of that admir- able magazine I owe thanks for his permission to reprint. Now that Roger is to have ten Parnassuses on vi TO THE BOOKSELLERS the road, I am emboldened to think that some of you may encounter them on their travels. And if you do, I hope you will find that these new errants of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation are living up to the ancient and honourable traditions of our noble profession. CHRISTOPHER MORLEY. Philadelphia, April 28, 1919. Spec. Colistie, pe 2-30-08 Parcos CONTENTS HAPTER PAGI . . . I. The Haunted Bookshop 3 II. The Corn Cob Club. 29 III. Titania Arrives 54 IV. The Disappearing Volume 76 V. Aubrey Walks Part Way Home- And Rides the Rest of the Way 98 VI. Titania Learns the Business . 109 VII. Aubrey Takes Lodgings 184 VIII. Aubrey Goes to the Movies, and Wishes He Knew More German . 153 LX. Again the Narrative Is Retarded 176 X. Roger Raids the Ice-box . 185 XI. Titania Tries Reading in Bed 196 XII. Aubrey Determines to Give Service That's Different 215 XIII. The Battle of Ludlow Street. 230 XIV. The Cromwell Makes Its Last Ap- pearance 248 XV. Mr. Chapman Waves His Wand 270 . . . . O THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP The Haunted Bookshop CHAPTER THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP F YOU are ever in Brooklyn, that borough of superb sunsets and magnificent vistas of husband-propelled baby-carriages, it is to be hoped you may chance upon a quiet by-street where there is a very remarkable bookshop. This bookshop, which does business under the unusual name “Parnassus at Home," is housed in one of the comfortable old brown-stone dwellings which have been the joy of several generations of plumbers and cockroaches. The owner of the business has been at pains to remodel the house to make it a more suitable shrine for his trade, which deals entirely in second-hand volumes. There is no second-hand bookshop in the world more worthy of respect. It was about six o'clock of a cold November evening, with gusts of rain splattering upon the 8 4 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP pavement, when a young man proceeded uncer- tainly along Gissing Street, stopping now and then to look at shop windows as though doubtful of his way. At the warm and shining face of a French rôtisserie he halted to compare the number enam- elled on the transom with a memorandum in his hand. Then he pushed on for a few minutes, at last reaching the address he sought. Over the entrance his eye was caught by the sign: PARNASSUS AT HOME R. AND H. MIFFLIN BOOKLOVERS WELCOME! THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED He stumbled down the three steps that led into the dwelling of the muses, lowered his overcoat collar, and looked about. It was very different from such bookstores as he had been accustomed to patronize. Two stories of the old house had been thrown into one: the lower space was divided into little alcoves; above, a gallery ran round the wall, which carried books to the ceiling. The air was heavy with the de- lightful fragrance of mellowed paper and leather surcharged with a strong bouquet of tobacco. In (MU) 6 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP in others where lamps were glowing he could see a table and chairs. In one corner, under a sign lettered ESSAYS, an elderly gentleman was read- ing, with a face of fanatical ecstasy illumined by the sharp glare of electricity; but there was no wreath of smoke about him so the newcomer concluded he was not the proprietor. As the young man approached the back of the shop the general effect became more and more fan- tastic. On some skylight far overhead he could hear the rain drumming; but otherwise the place was completely silent, peopled only (so it seemed) by the gurgitating whorls of smoke and the bright profile of the essay reader. It seemed like a secret fane, some shrine of curious rites, and the young man's throat was tightened by a stricture which was half agitation and half tobacco. Towering above him into the gloom were shelves and shelves of books, darkling toward the roof. He saw a table with a cylinder of brown paper and twine, evi- dently where purchases might be wrapped; but there was no sign of an attendant. “This place may indeed be haunted,” he thought, “perhaps by the delighted soul of Sir Walter Raleigh, patron of the weed, but seemingly not by the proprietors.' His eyes, searching the blue and vaporous vistas of the shop, were caught by a circle of brightness THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 7 Chat shone with a curious egg-like lustre, It was round and white, gieaming in the sheen of a hang. ing light, a bright island in a surf of tobacco smoke. He came more close, and found it was a bald head. This head (he then saw) surmounted a small, sharp-eyed man who sat tilted back in a swivel chair, in a corner which seemed the nerve centre of the establishment. The large pigeon-holed desk in front of him was piled high with volumes of all sorts, with tins of tobacco and newspaper clippings and letters. An antiquated typewriter, looking something like a harpsichord, was half-buried in sheets of manuscript. The little bald-headed man was smoking a corn-cob pipe and reading a cook. book. “I beg your pardon,” said the caller, pleasantly; “is this the proprietor? Mr. Roger Mifflin, the proprietor of “Parnassus at Home," looked up, and the visitor saw that he had keen blue eyes, a short red beard, and a con- vincing air of competent originality. “It is,” said Mr. Mifflin. "Anything I can do for you?” “My name is Aubrey Gilbert,” said the young man. “I am representing the Grey-Matter Advere tising Agency. . I want to discuss with you the advisability of your letting us handle your adver tising account, prepare snappy copy for you, and 8 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 99 place it in large circulation mediums. Now the war's over, you ought to prepare some constructive campaign for bigger business. The bookseller's face beamed. He put down his cookbook, blew an expanding gust of smoke, and looked up brightly. “My dear chap,” he said, “I don't do any adver- tising.” “Impossible!” cried the other, aghast as at some gratuitous indecency. “Not in the sense you mean. Such advertising as benefits me most is done for me by the snappiesto copywriters in the business.” “I suppose you refer to Whitewash and Gilt?" said Mr. Gilbert wistfully. “Not at all. The people who are doing my ad- vertising are Stevenson, Browning, Conrad and Company." “Dear me," said the Grey-Matter solicitor. “I don't know that agency at all. Still, I doubt if their copy has more pep than ours.” "I don't think you get me. I mean that my advertising is done by the books I sell. If I sell a man a book by Stevenson or Conrad, a book that delights or terrifies him, that man and that book become my living advertisements." “But that word-of-mouth advertising is ex- ploded,” said Gilbert. “You can't get Distribu- THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 9 tion that way. You've got to keep your trade- mark before the public." *By the bones of Tauchnitz!” cried Mifflin. “Look here, you wouldn't go to a doctor, a medical specialist, and tell him he ought to advertise in papers and magazines? A doctor is advertised by the bodies he cures. My business is adver- tised by the minds I stimulate. And let me tell you that the book business is different from other trades. People don't know they want books. I can see just by looking at you that your mind is ill for lack of books but you are blissfully unaware of it! People don't go to a bookseller until some serious mental accident or disease makes them aware of their danger. Then they come here. For me to advertise would be about as useful as telling people who feel perfectly well that they ought to go to the doctor. Do you know why people are reading more books now than ever before? Because the terrific catastrophe of the war has made them realize that their minds are ill. The world was suffering from all sorts of mental fevers and aches and disorders, and never knew it. Now our mental pangs are only too manifest. We are all reading, hungrily, hastily, trying to find out-after the trouble is over-what was the matter with our minds." The little bookseller was standing up now, and 10 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP his visitor watched him with mingled amusement and alarm. “You know," said Mifflin, “I am interested that you should have thought it worth while to come in here. It reinforces my conviction of the amaz. ing future ahead of the book business. But I tell you that future lies not merely in systematizing it as a trade. It lies in dignifying it as a profes- sion. It is small use to jeer at the public for craving shoddy books, quack books, untrue books. Physi- cian, cure thyself! Let the bookseller learn to know and revere good books, he will teach the customer. The hunger for good books is more general and more insistent than you would dream. But it is still in a way subconscious. People need books, but they don't know they need them. Generally they are not aware that the books they need are in existence.” "Why wouldn't advertising be the way to let them know?” asked the young man, rather acutely. “My dear chap, I understand the value of adver- tising. But in my own case it would be futile. I am not a dealer in merchandise but a specialist in adjusting the book to the human need. Between ourselves, there is no such thing, abstractly, as a 'good' book. A book is 'good' only when it meets some human hunger or refutes some human error. A book that is good for me would very likely be . THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 11 punk for you. My pleasure is to prescribe books for such patients as drop in here and are willing to cell me their symptoms. Some people have let their reading faculties decay so that all I can do is hold a post mortem on them. But most are still open to treatment. There is no one so grateful as the man to whom you have given just the book his soul needed and he never knew it. No adver- tisement on earth is as potent as a grateful cus- tomer. “I will tell you another reason why I don't advertise,” he continued. “In these days when everyone keeps his trademark before the public, as you call it, not to advertise is the most original and startling thing one can do to attract attention, It was the fact that I do not advertise that drew you here. And everyone who comes here thinks he has discovered the place himself. He goes and tells his friends about the book asylum run by a crank and a lunatic, and they come here in turn to see what it is like." “I should like to come here again myself and browse about,” said the advertising agent. “I should like to have you prescribe for me.” “The first thing needed is to acquire a sense of pity. The world has been printing books for 450 years, and yet gunpowder still has a wider circula. Lion. Never mind! Printer's ink is the greater 12 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP explosive: it will win. Yes, I have a few of the good books here. There are only about 30,000 really important books in the world. I suppose about 5,000 of them were written in the English language, and 5,000 more have been translated.” “You are open in the evenings?” “Until ten o'clock. A great many of my best customers are those who are at work all day and can only visit bookshops at night. The real book- lovers, you know, are generally among the humbler classes. A man who is impassioned with books has little time or patience to grow rich by concoct- ing schemes for cozening his fellows." The little bookseller's bald pate shone in the light of the bulb hanging over the wrapping table. His eyes were bright and earnest, his short red beard bristled like wire. He wore a ragged brown Nor. folk jacket from which two buttons were missing. A bit of a fanatic himself, thought the customer, but a very entertaining one. “Well, sir,” he said, “I am ever so grateful to you. I'll come again. Good-night.” And he started down the aisle for the door. As he neared the front of the shop, Mr. Mifflin switched on a cluster of lights that hung high up, and the young man found himself beside a large bulletin board covered with clippings, announce- ments. circulars, and little notices written on carde THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 13 in a small neat script. The following caught his eye: R If your mind needs phosphorus, try “Trivia," by Logan Pearsall Smith. If you mind needs a whiff of strong air, blue and cleansing, from hilltops and primrose valleys, try “The Story of My Heart," by Richard Jefferies. If your mind needs a tonic of iron and wine, and a thorough rough-and-tumbling, try Samuel Butler's “Notebooks” or “The Man Who Was Thursday,” by Chesterton. If you need "all manner of Irish," and a relapse into irresponsible freakishness, try “The Demi-Gods," by James Stephens. It is a better book than one deserves or expects. It's a good thing to turn your mind upside down now and then, like an hour-glass, to let the particles run the other way. One who loves the English tongue can have a lot of fun with a Latin dictionary. ROGER MIFFLIN. Human beings pay very little attention to what is told them unless they know something about it already. The young man had heard of none of these books prescribed by the practitioner of bibliotherapy. He was about to open the door when Mifflin appeared at his side. 14 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP “Look here,” he said, with a quaint touch of embarrassment. “I was very much interested by our talk. I'm all alone this evening-my wife is away on a holiday. Won't you stay and have sup- per with me? I was just looking up some new recipes when you came in.” The other was equally surprised and pleased by this unusual invitation. “Why—that's very good of you,” he said "Are you sure I won't be intruding?” “Not at all!” cried the bookseller. “I detest eating alone: I was hoping someone would drop in. I always try to have a guest for supper when my wife is away. I have to stay at home, you see, to keep an eye on the shop. We have no servant, and I do the cooking myself. It's great fun. Now you light your pipe and make yourself comfortable for a few minutes while I get things ready. Sup- pose you come back to my den." On a table of books at the front of the shop Mifflin laid a large card lettered: PROPRIETOR AT SUPPER IF YOU WANT ANYTHING RING THIS BELL THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 15 - Beside the card he placed a large old-fashioned dinner bell, and then led the way to the rear of the shop. Behind the little office in which this unusual merchant had been studying his cookbook a nar- row stairway rose on each side, running up to the gallery. Behind these stairs a short flight of steps led to the domestic recesses. The visitor found himself ushered into a small room on the left, where a grate of coals glowed under a dingy mantel- piece of yellowish marble. On the mantel stood a row of blackened corn-cob pipes and a canister of tobacco. Above was a startling canvas in em- phatic oils, representing a large blue wagon drawn by a stout white animal-evidently a horse A background of lush scenery enhanced the force- ful technique of the limner. The walls were stuffed with books. Two shabby, comfortable chairs were drawn up to the iron fender, and a mustard-coloured terrier was lying so close to the glow that a smell of singed hair was sen- sible. “There,” said the host; “this is my cabinet, my chapel of ease. Take off your coat and sit down.” “Really," began Gilbert, “I'm afraid this is "Nonsense! Now you sit down and commend 16 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP your soul to Providence and the kitchen stove. I'll bustle round and get supper." Gilbert pulled out his pipe, and with a sense of elation prepared to enjoy an unusual evening. He was a young man of agreeable parts, amiable and sensitive. He knew his disadvantages in literary conversation, for he had gone to an excel- lent college where glee clubs and theatricals had left him little time for reading. But still he was a lover of good books, though he knew them chiefly by hearsay. He was twenty-five years old, em- ployed as a copywriter by the Grey-Matter Ad. vertising Agency. The little room in which he found himself was plainly the bookseller's sanctum, and contained his own private library. Gilbert browsed along the shelves curiously The volumes were mostly shabby and bruised; they had evidently been picked up one by one in the humble mangers of the second-hand vendor. They all showed marks of use and meditation. Mr. Gilbert had the earnest mania for self- improvement which has blighted the lives of so many young men-a passion which, however, is commendable in those who feel themselves handi- capped by a college career and a jewelled fraternity emblem. It suddenly struck him that it would be valuable to make a list of some of the titles in THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 17 Mifflin's collection, as a suggestion for his own read- ing. He took out a memorandum book and began jotting down the books that intrigued him: The Works of Francis Thompson (3 vols.) Social History of Smoking: Apperson. The Path to Rome: Hilaire Belloc The Book of Tea: Kakuzo Happy Thoughts: F.C. Burnand Dr. Johnson's Prayers and Meditations Margaret Ogilvy: J. M. Barrie Confessions of a Thug: Taylor General Catalogue of the Oxford University Press The Morning's War: C. E. Montague The Spirit of Man: edited by Robert Bridges The Romany Rye: Borrow Poems: Emily Dickinson Poems: George Herbert The House of Cobwebs: George Gissing So far had he got, and was beginning to say to himself that in the interests of Advertising (who is a jealous mistress) he had best call a halt, when his host entered the room, his small face eager, his eyes blue points of light. “Come, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert!” he cried. “The meal is set. You want to wash your hands? Make haste then, this way: the eggs are hot and waiting." The dining room into which the guest was con- ducted betrayed a feminine touch not visible in the smoke-dimmed quarters of shop and cabinet 18 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP In a At the windows were curtains of laughing chintz and pots of pink geranium. The table, under a drop-light in a flame-coloured silk screen, was brightly set with silver and blue china. cut-glass decanter sparkled a ruddy brown wine. The edged tool of Advertising felt his spirits under- go an unmistakable upward pressure. “Sit down, sir,” said Mifflin, lifting the roof of & platter. “These are eggs Samuel Butler, an in- vention of my own, the apotheosis of hen fruit." Gilbert greeted the invention with applause. An Egg Samuel Butler, for the notebook of house- wives, may be summarized as a pyramid, based upon toast, whereof the chief masonries are a flake of bacon, an egg poached to firmness, a wreath of mushrooms, a cap-sheaf of red peppers; the whole dribbled with a warm pink sauce of which the inventor retains the secret. To this the book. seller chef added fried potatoes from another disk, and poured for his guest a glass of wine. “This is California catawba,” said Mifflin, "in which the grape and the sunshine very pleasantly (and cheaply) fulfil their allotted destiny. I pledge you prosperity to the black art of Advertising!” The psychology of the art and mystery of Ad- vertising rests upon tact, an instinctive perception of the tone and accent which will be en rapport with the mood of the hearer. Mr. Gilbert was THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 19 aware of this, and felt that quite possibly his host was prouder of his whimsical avocation as gour- met than of his sacred profession as bookman. “Is it possible, sir,” he began, in lucid Johne sonian, “that you can concoct so delicious an entrée in so few minutes? You are not hoaxing me? There is no secret passage between Gissing Street and the laboratories of the Ritz?" “Ah, you should taste Mrs. Mifflin's cooking!” said the bookseller. “I am only an amateur, who dabble in the craft during her absence. She is on a visit to her cousin in Boston. She becomes, quite justifiably, weary of the tobacco of this es- tablishment, and once or twice a year it does her good to breathe the pure serene of Beacon Hill. During her absence it is my privilege to inquire into the ritual of housekeeping. I find it very sedative after the incessant excitement and specu- lation of the shop." “I should have thought,” said Gilbert, “that life in a bookshop would be delightfully tranquil.” “Far from it. Living in a bookshop is like living in a warehouse of explosives. Those shelves are ranked with the most furious combustibles in the world—the brains of men. I can spend a rainy afternoon reading, and my mind works itself up to such a passion and anxiety over mortal probe lems as almost unmans me It is terribly nerve 20 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP racking. Surround a man with Carlyle, Emerson, Thoreau, Chesterton, Shaw, Nietzsche, and George Adewould you wonder at his getting excited? What would happen to a cat if she had to live in a room tapestried with catnip? She would go crazy!” “Truly, I had never thought of that phase of bookselling," said the young man. “How is it, though, that libraries are shrines of such austere calm? If books are as provocative as you sug- gest, one would expect every librarian to utter the shrill screams of a hierophant, to clash ecstatic castanets in his silent alcoves!.” “Ah, my boy, you forget the card index! Librarians invented that soothing device for the febrifuge of their souls, just as I fall back upon the rites of the kitchen. Librarians would all go mad, those capable of concentrated thought, if they did not have the cool and healing card index as medi- cament! Some more of the eggs?" I “Thank you," said Gilbert. “Who was the butler whose name was associated with the dish?" “What?” cried Mifflin, in agitation, "you have not heard of Samuel Butler, the author of The Way of All Flesh? My dear young man, whoever permits himself to die before he has read that book, and also Erewhon, has deliberately forfeited his chances of paradise. For paradise in the world to come is uncertain, but there is indeed 22 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP “I'm afraid I don't always obey that precept, said the bookseller as he poured the coffee. “Mrs. Mifflin hangs it there whenever she goes away, to remind me. But, as our friend Samuel Butler says, he that is stupid in little will also be stupid in much. I have a different theory about dish- washing, and I please myself by indulging it. “I used to regard dish-washing merely as an ignoble chore, a kind of hateful discipline which had to be undergone with knitted brow and brazen fortitude. When my wife went away the first time, I erected a reading stand and an electric light over the sink, and used to read while my hands went automatically through base gestures of purification. I made the great spirits of literature partners of my sorrow, and earned by heart a good deal of Paradise Lost and of Walt Mason, while I soused and wallowed among pots and pans. used to comfort myself with two lines of Keats: I "The moving waters at their priest-like task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores Then a new conception of the matter struck me. It is intolerable for a human being to go on doing any task as a penance, under duress. No matter what the work is, one must spiritualize it in some way, shatter the old idea of it into bits and rebuild THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 23 at nearer to the heart's desire How was I to do this with dish-washing? "I broke a good many plates while I was pon- dering over the matter. Then it occurred to me that here was just the relaxation I needed. I had been worrying over the mental strain of being sur- rounded all day long by vociferous books, crying out at me their conflicting views as to the glories and agonies of life. Why not make dish-washing my balm and poultice? “When one views a stubborn fact from a new angle, it is amazing how all its contours and edges change shape! Immediately my dishpan began to glow with a kind of philosophic halo! The warm, soapy water became a sovereign medicine to retract hot blood from the head; the homely act of washing and drying cups and saucers became a. symbol of the order and cleanliness that man im- poses on the unruly world about him. I tore down my book rack and reading lamp from over the sink. “Mr. Gilbert,” he went on, “do not laugh at me when I tell you that I have evolved a whole kitchen philosophy of my own. I find the kitchen the shrine of our civilization, the focus of all that is comery in life. The ruddy shine of the stove is as beautiful as any sunset. A well-polished jug or spoon is as fair, as complete and beautiful, as any sonnet. The dish mop, properly rinsed and wrung THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 25 - "I have never heard of it," said Gilbert. "If you are really interested in bookselling you should come here some evening to a meeting of the Corn Cob Club. Once a month a number of boolsellers gather here and we discuss matters of bookish concern over corn-cobs and cider. We have all sorts and conditions of booksellers: one is a fanatic on the subject of libraries. He thinks that every public library should be dynamited. An- other thinks that moving pictures will destroy the book trade. What rot! Surely everything that arouses people's minds, that makes them alert and questioning, increases their appetite for books." “The life of a bookseller is very demoralizing to the intellect," he went on after a pause. “He is surrounded by innumerable books; he cannot possibly read them all; he dips into one and picks up a scrap from another. His mind gradually fills itself with miscellaneous flotsam, with superficial opinions, with a thousand half-knowledges. Al- most unconsciously he begins to rate literature according to what people ask for. He begins to wonder whether Ralph Waldo Trine isn't really greater than Ralph Waldo Emerson, whether J. M. Chapple isn't as big a man as J. M. Barrie. That way lies intellectual suicide. "One thing, however, you must grant the good bookseller. He is tolerant. He is patient of all 26 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP ideas and theories. Surrounded, engulfed by the torrent of men's words, he is willing to listen to them all. Even to the publisher's salesman he turns an indulgent ear. He is willing to be hum- bugged for the weal of humanity. He hopes un- ceasingly for good books to be born. “My business, you see, is different from most. I'only deal in second-hand books; I only buy books that I consider have some honest reason for exist- ence. In so far as human judgment can discern, I try to keep trash out of my shelves. A doctor doesn't traffic in quack remedies. I don't traffic in bogus books. “A comical thing happened the other day. There is a certain wealthy man, a Mr. Chapman, who has long frequented this shop “I wonder if that could be Mr. Chapman of the Chapman Daintybits Company?” said Gilbert, feeling his feet touch familiar soil. “The same, I believe," said Mifflin. “Do you know him?" “Ah,” cried the young man with reverence. “There is a man who can tell you the virtues of advertising. If he is interested in books, it is advertising that made it possible. We handle all his copy-I've written a lot of it myseif. We have made the Chapman prunes a staple of civili- zation and culture. I myself devised that slogan THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 27 1 We preen ourselves on our prunes' which you see in every big magazine. Chapman prunes are known the world over. The Mikado eats them once a week. The Pope eats them. Why, we have just heard that thirteen cases of them are to be put on board the George Washington for the President's voyage to the Peace Conference. The Czecho- Slovak armies were fed largely on prunes. It is our conviction in the office that our campaign for the Chapman prunes did much to win the war.” “I read in an ad the other day—perhaps you wrote that, too?" said the bookseller, "that the Elgin watch had won the war. However, Mr. Chapman has long been one of my best customers. ' He heard about the Corn Cob Club, and though of course he is not a bookseller he begged to come to our meetings. We were glad to have him do so, and he has entered into our discussions with great zeal. Often he has offered many a shrewd com- ment. He has grown so enthusiastic about the bookseller's way of life that the other day he wrote to me about his daughter (he is a widower). She has been attending a fashionable girls' school where, he says, they have filled her head with absurd, wasteful, snobbish notions. He says she has no more idea of the usefulness and beauty of life than a Pomeranian dog. Instead of sending her to college, he has asked me if Mrs. Mifflin and I 28 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP I am will take her in here to learn to sell books. He wants her to think she is earning her keep, and is going to pay me privately for the privilege of hav- ing her live here. He thinks that being surrounded by books will put some sense in her head. rather nervous about the experiment, but it is a compliment to the shop, isn't it?” “Ye gods,” cried Gilbert, “what advertising copy that would make!” At this point the bell in the shop rang, and Mifflin jumped up. “This part of the evening is often rather busy,” he said. “I'm afraid I'll have to go down on the floor. Some of my habitués rather expect me to be on hand to gossip about books." “I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed my- self,” said Gilbert. “I'm going to come again and study your shelves." “Well, keep it dark about the young lady,” said the bookseller. “I don't want all you young blades dropping in here to unsettle her mind. If she falls in love with anybody in this shop, it'll have to be Joseph Conrad or John Keats!” As he passed out, Gilbert saw Roger Mifflin engaged in argument with a bearded man who looked like a college professor. “Carlyle’s Oliver Cromwell?” he was saying. “Yes, indeed! Right over here! Hullo, that's odd! It was here." CHAPTER II THE CORN COB CLUB* T HE Haunted Bookshop was a delightful place, especially of an evening, when its drowsy alcoves were kindled with the brightness of lamps shining on the rows of volumes. Many a passer-by would stumble down the steps from the street in sheer curiosity; others, familiar visitors, dropped in with the same comfortable emotion that a man feels on entering his club. Roger's custom was to sit at his desk in the rear, puffing his pipe and reading; though if any custo- mer started a conversation, the little man was quick and eager to carry it on. The lion of talk lay only sleeping in him; it was not hard to goad it up. It may be remarked that all bookshops that are open in the evening are busy in the after-supper hours. Is it that the true book-lovers are noc- turnal gentry, only venturing forth when darkness and silence and the gleam of hooded lights ir- *The latter half of this chapter may be omitted by all readers who are not booksellers. 30 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 1 resistibly suggest reading? Certainly night-time has a mystic affinity for literature, and it is strange that the Esquimaux have created no great books. Surely, for most of us, an arctic night would be insupportable without O. Henry and Stevenson. Or, as Roger Mifflin remarked during a passing enthusiasm for Ambrose Bierce, the true noctes ambrosianae are the noctes ambrose bierceianae. But Roger was prompt in closing Parnassus at ten o'clock. At that hour he and Bock (the mus- tard-coloured terrier, named for Boccaccio) would make the round of the shop, see that everything was shipshape, empty the ash trays provided for customers, lock the front door, and turn off the lights. Then they would retire to the den, where Mrs. Mifflin was generally knitting or reading. She would brew a pot of cocoa and they would read or talk for half an hour or so before bed. Sometimes Roger would take a stroll along Gissing Street before turning in. All day spent with books has a rather exhausting effect on the mind, and he used to enjoy the fresh air sweeping up the dark Brooklyn streets, meditating some thought that had sprung from his reading, while Bock sniffed and padded along in the manner of an elderly dog at night. While Mrs. Mifflin was away, however, Roger's routine was somewhat different. After closing THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 31 the shop he would return to his desk and with a furtive, shamefaced air take out from a bottom drawer an untidy folder of notes and manuscript, This was the skeleton in his closet, his secret sin. It was the scaffolding of his book, which he had been compiling for at least ten years, and to which he had tentatively assigned such different titles as “Notes on Literature,” “The Muse on Crut- ches,” “Books and I,” and “What a Young Book- seller Ought to Know.” It had begun long ago, in the days of his odyssey as a rural book huckster, under the title of “Literature Among the Farm- ers,” but it had branched out until it began to appear that (in bulk at least) Ridpath would have to look to his linoleum laurels. The manu- script in its present state had neither beginning nor end, but it was growing strenuously in the middle, and hundreds of pages were covered with Roger's minute script. The chapter on “Ars Bibliopolae," or the art of bookselling, would be, he hoped, a classic among generations of book vendors still unborn. Seated at his disorderly desk, caressed by a counterpane of drifting tobacco haze, he would pore over the manuscript, crossing out, interpolating, re-arguing, and then referring to volumes on his shelves. Bock would snore under the chair, and soon Roger's brain would begin to waver. In the end he would fall asleep over his 32 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP papers, wake with a cramp about two o'clock, and creak irritably to a lonely bed. All this we mention only to explain how it was that Roger was dozing at his desk about midnight, the evening after the call paid by Aubrey Gilbert. He was awakened by a draught of chill air passing like a mountain brook over his bald pate. Stiffly he sat up and looked about. The shop was in darkness save for the bright electric over his head. Bock, of more regular habit than his master, had gone back to his couch in the kitchen, made of a packing case that had once coffined a set of the Encyclopædia Britannica. “That's funny,” said Roger to himself. “Surely I locked the door?” He walked to the front of the shop, switching on the cluster of lights that hung from the ceiling. The door was ajar, but every thing else seemed as usual. Bock, hearing his footsteps, came trotting out from the kitchen, his claws rattling on the bare wooden floor. · He looked up with the patient inquiry of a dog ac- customed to the eccentricities of his patron. “I guess I'm getting absent- minded,” said Roger. “I must have left the door open.” He closed and locked it. Then he noticed that the terrier was sniffing in the History alcove, which was at the front of the shop on the left-hand side. “What is it, old man?” said Roger. “Want THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP something to read in bed?” He turned on the light in that alcove. Everything appeared nor- mal. Then he noticed a book that projected an inch or so beyond the even line of bindings. It was a fad of Roger's to keep all his books in a flat row on the shelves, and almost every evening at closing time he used to run his palm along the backs of the volumes to level any irregularities left by careless browsers. He put out a hand to push the book into place. Then he stopped. “Queer again,” he thought. “Carlyle's Oliver Cromwell! I looked for that book last night and couldn't find it. When that professor fellow was here. Maybe I'm tired and can't see straight. I'll go to bed.” The next day was a date of some moment. Not only was it Thanksgiving Day, with the November meeting of the Corn Cob Club scheduled for that evening, but Mrs. Mifflin had promised to get home from Boston in time to bake a chocolate cake for the booksellers. It was said that some of the members of the club were faithful in attendance more by reason of Mrs. Mifflin's chocolate cake, and the cask of cider that her brother Andrew McGill sent down from the Sabine Farm every autumn, than on account of the bookish conversa. tion, THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 35 were cool and ruddy from the keen air, her face lit with the tranquil satisfaction of those who have sojourned in the comfortable city of Boston. “Well, my dear,” said Roger, “this makes it a real Thanksgiving. You look as plump and full of matter as The Home Book of Verse.” “I've had a stunning time,” she said, patting Bock who stood at her knee, imbibing the familiar and mysterious fragrance by which dogs identify their human friends. “I haven't even heard of a book for three weeks. I did stop in at the Old Angle Book Shop yesterday, just to say hullo to Joe Jillings. He says all booksellers are crazy, but that you are the craziest of the lot. He wants to know if you're bankrupt yet.” Roger's slate-blue eyes twinkled. He hung up a cup in the china closet and lit his pipe before Yeplying. “What did you say?” “I said that our shop was haunted, and mustn't be supposed to come under the usual conditions of the trade.' “Bully for you! And what did Joe say to that?" “Haunted by the nuts!"" "Well,” said Roger, “when literature goes bank. rupt I'm willing to go with it. Not till then. But by the way, we're going to be haunted by a 38 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP This secret masterpiece by Mark Twain was one of the bookseller's treasures. Not even Helen had ever been permitted to read it; and she had shrewdly judged that it was not in her line, for though she knew perfectly well where he kept it (together with his life insurance policy, some Liberty Bonds, an autograph letter from Charles Spencer Chaplin, and a snapshot of herself taken on their honeymoon) she had never made any attempt to examine it. “Well,” said Helen; “Titania or no Titania, if the Corn Cobs want their chocolate cake to-night I.must get busy. Take my suitcase upstairs like a good fellow" A gathering of booksellers is a pleasant sanhe- drim to attend. The members of this ancient craft bear mannerisms and earmarks just as defi- nitely recognizable as those of the cloak and suit business or any other trade. They are likely to be a little shall we say—worn at the bindings, as becomes men who have forsaken worldly profit to pursue a noble calling ill rewarded in cash. They are possibly a trifle embittered, which is an excel- lent demeanour for mankind in the face of inscruz table heaven. Long experience with publishers salesmen makes them suspicious of books praised between the courses of a heavy meal. When a THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 39 publisher's salesman takes you out to dinner, it is not surprising if the conversation turns toward literature about the time the last of the peas are being harried about the plate. But, as Jerry Gladfist says (he runs a shop up on Thirty-Eighth Street) the publishers' salesmen supply a long-felt want, for they do now and then buy one a dinner the like of which no bookseller would otherwise be likely to commit. “Well, gentlemen,” said Roger as his guests assembled in his little cabinet, “it's a cold evening. Pull up toward the fire. Make free with the cider. The cake's on the table. My wife came back from Boston specially to make it." “Here's Mrs. Mifflin's health!” said Mr. Chap- man, a quiet little man who had a habit of listen- ing to what he heard. “I hope she doesn't mind keeping the shop while we celebrate?” “Not a bit,” said Roger. "She enjoys it.' “I see Tarzan of the Apes is running at the Gissing Street movie palace,” said Gladfist. “Great stuff. Have you seen it?” “Not while I can still read The Jungle Book," said Roger. “You make me tired with that talk about litera- ture,” cried Jerry. "A book's a book, even if Harold Bell Wright wrote it." “A book's a book if you enjoy reading it," 40 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP amended Meredith, from a big Fifth Avenue book. store. “Lots of people enjoy Harold Bell Wright just as lots of people enjoy tripe. Either of them would kill me. But let's be tolerant." “Your argument is a whole succession of non sequiturs," said Jerry, stimulated by the cider to unusual brilliance. “That's a long putt," chuckled Benson, the dealer in rare books and first editions. “What I mean is this,” said Jerry. “We aren't literary critics. It's none of our business to say what's good and what isn't. Our job is simply to supply the public with the books it wants when it wants them. How it comes to want the books it does is no concern of ours.” “You're the guy that calls bookselling the worst business in the world,” said Roger warmly, “and you're the kind of guy that makes it so. I suppose you would say that it is no concern of the bookseller to try to increase the public appetite for books?" “ Appetite is too strong a word,” said Jerry. “As far as books are concerned the public is barely able to sit up and take a little liquid nourishment. Solid foods don't interest it. If you try to cram roast beef down the gullet of an invalid you'll kill him. Let the public alone, and thank God when it comes round to amputate any of its hard-earned cash. 16 42 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP here. Would there be any sense in his loading up his shelves with Maeterlinck and Shaw when the department-store trade wants Eleanor Porter and the Tarzan stuff? Does a country grocer carry the same cigars that are listed on the wine card of a Fifth Avenue hotel? Of course not. He gets in the cigars that his trade enjoys and is accustomed to. Bookselling must obey the ordinary rules of commerce. MIFFLIN-A fig for the ordinary rules of com- merce! I came over here to Gissing Street to get away from them. My mind would blow out its fuses if I had to abide by the dirty little considera- tions of supply and demand. As far as I am con- cerned, supply creates demand. GLADFISTStill, old chap, you have to abide by the dirty little consideration of earning a living, unless someone has endowed you? BENSON-Of course my line of business isn't strictly the same as you fellows'. But a thought that has often occurred to me in selling rare edi- tions may interest you. The customer's willing, ness to part with his money is usually in inverse ratio to the permanent benefit he expects to derive from what he purchases. MEREDITH—Sounds a bit like John Stuart Mill. BENSON–Even so, it may be true. Folks will pay a darned sight more to be amused than they THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP will to be exalted. Look at the way a man shelll out five bones for a couple of theatre seats, oi spends a couple of dollars a week on cigars without thinking of it. Yet two dollars or five dollars for a book costs him positive anguish. The mistake you fellows in the retail trade have made is in try- ing to persuade your customers that books are necessities. Tell them they're luxuries. That'li get them! People have to work so hard in this life they're shy of necessities. A man will go on wear. ing a suit until it's threadbare, much sooner than smoke a threadbare cigar. GLADFIST—Not a bad thought. You know, Mifflin here calls me a material-minded cynic, but by thunder, I think I'm more idealistic than he is. I'm no propagandist incessantly trying to cajole poor innocent customers into buying the kind of book I think they ought to buy. When I see the helpless pathos of most of them, who drift into a bookstore without the slightest idea of what they want or what is worth reading, I would disdain to take advantage of their frailty. They are abso- lutely at the mercy of the salesman. They will buy whatever he tells them to. Now the honour- able man, the high-minded man"(by which I mean myself) is too proud to ram some shimmering stuff at them just because he thinks they ought to read it. Let the boobs blunder around and grab what 44 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP they can. Let natural selection operate. I think it is fascinating to watch them, to see their help less groping, and to study the weird ways in which they make their choice. Usually they will buy a book either because they think the jacket is at- tractive, or because it costs a dollar and a quarter instead of a dollar and a half, or because they say they saw a review of it. The “review” usually turns out to be an ad. I don't think one book- buyer in a thousand knows the difference. MIFFLIN—Your doctrine is pitiless, base, and false! What would you think of a physician who saw men suffering from a curable disease and did nothing to alleviate their sufferings? GLADFIST—Their sufferings (as you call them) are nothing to what mine would be if I stocked up with a lot of books that no one but highbrows would buy. What would you think of a base public that would go past my shop day after day and let the high-minded occupant die of starvation? MIFFLIN—Your ailment, Jerry, is that you con- ceive yourself as merely a tradesman. What I'm telling you is that the bookseller is a public ser- vant. He ought to be pensioned by the state. The honour of his profession should compel him to do all he can to spread the distribution of good stuff. QUINCY_I think you forget how much we wbo THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 45 deal chiefly in new books are at the mercy of the publishers. We have to stock the new stuff, a large proportion of which is always punk. Why it is punk, goodness knows, because most of the bum books don't sell. MIFFLIN-Ah, that is a mystery indeed! But I can give you a fair reason. First, because there isn't enough good stuff to go round. Second, be- cause of the ignorance of the publishers, many of whom honestly don't know a good book when they see it. It is a matter of sheer heedlessness in the selection of what they intend to publish. A big drug factory or a manufacturer of a well-known jam spends vast sums of money on chemically as- saying and analyzing the ingredients that are to go into his medicines or in gathering and selecting the fruit that is to be stewed into jam. And yet they tell me that the most important department of a publishing business, which is the gathering and sampling of manuscripts, is the least considered and the least remunerated. I knew a reader for one publishing house: he was a babe recently out of college who didn't know a book from a frat pin. If a jam factory employs a trained chemist, why isn't it worth a publisher's while to employ an expert book analyzer? There are some of them. Look at the fellow who runs the Pacific Monthly's book business for example! He knows a thing or two. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 47 them. Still, Jerry has a certain grain of truth to his credit. I get ten times more satisfaction in selling a copy of Newton's The Amenities of Book, Collecting than I do in selling a copy of—well, Tarzan; but it's poor business to impose your own private tastes on your customers. All you can do is to hint them along tactfully, when you get a chance, toward the stuff that counts. QUINCY-You remind me of something that happened in our book department the other day A flapper came in and said she had forgotten the name of the book she wanted, but it was something about a young man who had been brought up by the monks. I was stumped. I tried her with The Cloister and the Hearth and Monastery Bells and Legends of the Monastic Orders and so on, but her face was blank. Then one of the salesgirls overheard us talking, and she guessed it right off the bat. Of course it was Tarzan. MIFFLIN—You poor simp, there was your chance so introduce her to Mowgli and the bandar-log. QUINCY—True I didn't think of it. MIFFLIN-I'd like to get you fellows' ideas about advertising. There was a young chap in here the other day from an advertising agency, trying to get me to put some copy in the papers. Have you found that it pays? FRUEHLING—It always pays--somebody. The 48 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP only question is, does it pay the man who pays for the ad? MEREDITH-What do you mean? FRUEHLING-Did you ever consider the problem of what I call tangential advertising? By that I mean advertising that benefits your rival rather than yourself? Take an example. On Sixth Avenue there is a lovely delicatessen shop, but rather expensive. Every conceivable kind of sweetmeat and relish is displayed in the brightly dit window. When you look at that window it simply makes your mouth water. You decide to have something to eat. But do you get it there? Not much! You go a little farther down the street and get it at the Automat or the Crystal Lunch. The delicatessen fellow pays the overhead expense of that beautiful food exhibit, and the other man gets the benefit of it. It's the same way in my busi- ness. I'm in a factory district, where people can't afford to have any but the best books. (Meredith will bear me out in saying that only the wealthy can afford the poor ones.) They read the book ads in the papers and magazines, the ads of Meredith's shop and others, and then they come to me to buy them. I believe in advertising, but I believe in letting someone else pay for it. MIFFLIN-I guess perhaps I can afford to go on riding on Meredith's ads. I hadn't thought of THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 49 that. But I think I shall put a little notice in one of the papers some day, just a little card saying PARNASSUS AT HOME GOOD BOOKS BOUGHT AND SOLD THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED It will be fun to see what come-back I get. QUINCY—The book section of a department store doesn't get much chance to enjoy that tangential advertising, as Fruehling calls it. Why, when our interior decorating shark puts a few volumes of a pirated Kipling bound in crushed oilaloth or a copy of “Knock-kneed Stories,” into the window to show off a Louis XVIII boudoir suite, display space is charged up against my department! Last sum- mer he asked me for "something by that Ring fellow, I forget the name,” to put a punchy finish on a layout of porch furniture. I thought perhaps he meant Wagner's Nibelungen operas, and began to dig them out. Then I found he meant Ring Lardner. GLADFIST—There you are. I keep telling you bookselling is an impossible job for a man who loves literature. When did a bookseller ever make any real contribution to the world's happiness? 50 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP MIFFLIN-Dr. Johnson's father was a bookseller, GLADFIST-Yes, and couldn't afford to pay for Sam's education. FRUEHLING—There's another kind of tangential advertising that interests me. Take, for instance, a Coles Phillips painting for some brand of silk stockings. Of course the high lights of the pic- ture are cunningly focussed on the stockings of the eminently beautiful lady; but there is always something else in the picturean automobile or a country house or a Morris chair or a parasol- which makes it just as effective an ad for those goods as it is for the stockings. Every now and then Phillips sticks a book into his paintings, and I expect the Fifth Avenue book trade benefits by it. A book that fits the mind as well as a silk stocking does the ankle will be sure to sell. MIFFLIN—You are all crass materialists. I teil you, books are the depositories of the human spirit, which ss the only thing in this world that endures. What was it Shakespeare said- Not marble nor the gilded monuments Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme- By the bones of the Hohenzollerns, he was right! And wait a minute! There's something in Car lyle's Cromwell that comes back to me. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 51 He ran excitedly out of the room, and the mem- bers of the Corn Cob fraternity grinned at each other. Gladfist cleaned his pipe and poured out some more cider. “He's off on his hobby," he chuckled. “I love baiting him.” "Speaking of Carlyle's Cromwell,” said Frueh- ling, “that's a book I don't often hear asked for. But a fellow came in the other day hunting for a copy, and to my chagrin I didn't have one. I rather pride myself on keeping that sort of thing in stock. So I called up Brentano's to see if I could pick one up, and they told me they had just sold the only copy they had. Somebody must have been boosting Thomas! Maybe he's quoted in Tarzan, or somebody has bought up the film rights.' Mifflin came in, looking rather annoyed. “Here's an odd thing," he said. “I know damn well that copy of Cromwell was on the shelf because I saw it there last night. It's not there now." “That's nothing,” said Quincy. “You know how people come into a second-hand store, see a book they take a fancy to but don't feel like buying just then, and tuck it away out of sight or on some other shelf where they think no one else will spot it, but they'll be able to find it when they can af- ford it. Probably someone's done that with your Cromwell." 52 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP “Maybe, but I doubt it,” said Mifflin. “Mrs. Mifflin says she didn't sell it this evening. I woke her up to ask her. She was dozing over her knit- ting at the desk. I guess she's tired after her trip. “I'm sorry to miss the Carlyle quotation,” said Benson. “What was the gist?” “I think I've got it jotted down in a notebook," said Roger, hunting along a shelf. “Yes, here it is.” He read aloud: “The works of a man, bury them under what guano-mountains and obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, cannot perish. What of Heroism, what of Eternal Light was in a Man and his Life, is with very great exactness added to the Eternities, remains forever a new divine portion of the Sum of Things. “Now, my friends, the bookseller is one of the keys in that universal adding machine, because he aids in the cross-fertilization of men and books. His delight in his calling doesn't need to be stimulated even by the bright shanks of a Coles Phillips pic ture.” “Roger, my boy,” said Gladfist, "your innocent enthusiasm makes me think of Tom Daly's fa- vourite story about the Irish priest who was rebuk. ing his flock for their love of whisky. 'Whisky,' he said, “is the bane of this congregation. Whisky, that steals away a man's brains. Whisky, that makes you shoot at landlords-and not hit them!' THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 53 Even so, my dear Roger, your enthusiasm makes you shoot at truth and never come anywhere near it.” “Jerry,” said Roger, “you are a upas tree. Your shadow is poisonous!” “Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Chapman, "I know Mrs. Mifflin wants to be relieved of her post. I vote we adjourn early. Your conversation is always delightful, though I am sometimes a bit uncertain as to the conclusions. My daughter is going to be a bookseller, and I shall look forward to hearing her views on the business.” As the guests made their way out through the shop, Mr. Chapman drew Roger aside. “It's per- fectly all right about sending Titania?” he asked. "Absolutely,” said Roger. “When does she want to come?" “Is to-morrow too soon?” “The sooner the better. We've got a little spare room upstairs that she can have. I've got some ideas of my own about furnishing it for her. Send her round to-morrow afternoon." CHAPTER III TITANIA ARRIVES T (HE first pipe after breakfast is a rite of some importance to seasoned smokers, and Roger applied the flame to the bowl as he stood at the bottom of the stairs. He blew a great gush of strong blue reek that eddied behind him as he ran up the flight, his mind eagerly meditating the con- genial task of arranging the little spare room for the coming employee. Then, at the top of the steps, he found that his pipe had already gone out. * What with filling my pipe and emptying its lighting it and relighting it,” he thought, “I don't seem to get much time for the serious concerns of life. Come to think of it, smoking, soiling dishes and washing them, talking and listening to other people talk, take up most of life anyway. This theory rather pleased him, so he ran down. stairs again to tell it to Mrs. Mifflin. “Go along and get that room fixed up,” she said, "and don't try to palm off any bogus doctrines on me so early in the morning. Housewives have no time for philosophy after breakfast." Roger thoroughly enjoyed himself in the task of 84 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 55 preparing the guest-room for the new assistant, It was a small chamber at the back of the second storey, opening on to a narrow passage that con- nected through a door with the gallery of the book- shop. Two small windows commanded a view of the modest roofs of that quarter of Brooklyn, roofs that conceal so many brave hearts, so many baby carriages, so many cups of bad coffee, and so many cartons of the Chapman prunes. “By the way,” he called downstairs, "better have some of the prunes for supper to-night, just as a compliment to Miss Chapman.” Mrs. Mifflin preserved a humorous silence. Over these noncommittal summits the bright eye of the bookseller, as he tacked up the freshly ironed muslin curtains Mrs. Mifflin had allotted, could discern a glimpse of the bay and the leviathan ferries that link Staten Island with civilization. “Just a touch of romance in the outlook,” he thought to himself. “It will suffice to keep a blasée young girl aware of the excitements of existence.” The room, as might be expected in a house pre- sided over by Helen Mifflin, was in perfect order to receive any occupant, but Roger had volunteered to psychologize it in such a fashion as (he thought) would convey favourable influences to the mis- guided young spirit that was to be its tenant. Incurable idealist, he had taken quite gravely bis 56 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP responsibility as landlord and employer of Mr. Chapman's daughter. No chambered nautilus was to have better opportunity to expand the tender mansions of its soul. Beside the bed was a bookshelf with a reading lamp. The problem Roger was discussing was what books and pictures might be the best preach. ers to this congregation of one. To Mrs. Mifflin's secret amusement he had taken down the picture of Sir Galahad which he had once hung there, because (as he had said) if Sir Galahad were living to-day he would be a bookseller. “We don't want her feasting her imagination on young Galahads,” he had remarked at breakfast. “That way lies premature matrimony. What I want to do is put up in her room one or two good prints representing actual men who were so delightful in their day that all the young men she is likely to see now will seem tepid and prehensile. Thus she will become dis- gusted with the present generation of youths and there will be some chance of her really putting her mind on the book business. Accordingly he had spent some time in going through a bin where he kept photos and drawings of authors that the publishers' “publicity men” were always showering upon him. After some thought he discarded promising engravings of Harold Bell Wright and Stephen Leacock, and chose THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 57 pictures of Shelley, Anthony Trollope, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Robert Burns. Then, after further meditation, he decided that neither Shelley nor Burns would quite do for a young girl's room, and set them aside in favour of a portrait of Samuel Butler. To these he added a framed text that he was very fond of and had hung over his own desk. He had once clipped it from a copy of Life and found much pleasure in it. It runs thus: ON THE RETURN OF A BOOK LENT TO A FRIEND I GIVE humble and hearty thanks for the safe return of this book which having endured the perils of my friend's bookcase, and the bookcases of my friend's friends, now returns to me in reasonably good condition. I GIVE humble and hearty thanks that my friend did not see fit to give this book to his infant as a plaything, nor use it as an ash-tray for his burning cigar, nor as a teething-ring for his mastiff. WHEN I lent this book I deemed it as lost: I was re- signed to the bitterness of the long parting: I never thought to look upon its pages again. BUT NOW that my book is come back to me, I rejoice and am exceeding glad! Bring hither the fatted mo- rocco and let us rebind the volume and set it on the shelf of honour: for this my book was lent, and is returned again. PRESENTLY, therefore, I may return some of the books that I myself have borrowed. 58 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP “There!” he thought. “That will convey to her the first element of book morality.” These decorations having been displayed on the walls, he bethought himself of the books that should stand on the bedside shelf. This is a question that admits of the utmost nicety of discussion. Some authorities hold that the proper books for a guest-room are of a soporific quality that will induce swift and painless repose. This school advises The Wealth of Nations, Rome under the Cæsars, The Statesman's Year Book, certain novels of Henry James, and The Letters of Queen Victoria (in three volumes). It is plausibly contended that books of this kind cannot be read late at night) for more than a few minutes at a time, and that they afford useful scraps of informa- tion, Another branch of opinion recommends for bed- time reading short stories, volumes of pithy anec dote, swift and sparkling stuff that may keep one awake for a space, yet will advantage all the sweeter slumber in the end. Even ghost stories and harrowing matter are maintained seasonable by these pundits. This class of reading comprises 0. Henry, Bret Harte, Leonard Merrick, Ambrose Bierce, W. W. Jacobs, Daudet, de Maupassant, and possibly even On a Slow Train Through Arkan- saw, that grievous classic of the railway bookstalls THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 59 whereof its author, Mr. Thomas W. Jackson, has said “It will sell forever, and a thousand years afterward.” To this might be added another of Mr. Jackson's onslaughts on the human intelli- gence, I'm From Texas, You Can't Steer Me, whereof is said (by the author) “It is like a hard- boiled egg, you can't beat it.” There are other of Mr. Jackson's books, whose titles escape memory, whereof he has said “They are a dynamite for sorrow.” Nothing used to annoy Mifflin more than to have someone come in and ask for copies of these works. His brother-in-law, An- drew McGill, the writer, once gave him for Christ- mas (just to annoy him) a copy of On a Slow Train Through Arkansaw sumptuously bound and gilded in what is known to the trade as “dove-coloured moze." Roger retorted by sending Andrew (for his next birthday) two volumes of Brann the Iconoclast bound in what Robert Cortes Holliday calls "embossed toadskin.” But that is apart from the story To the consideration of what to put on Miss Titania's bookshelf Roger devoted the delighted hours of the morning. Several times Helen called him to come down and attend to the shop, but he was sitting on the floor, unaware of numbed shins, poring over the volumes he had carted upstairs for a final culling. “It will be a great privilege,” he THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 61 “Roger!” called Mrs. Mifflin from downstairs: "Front! someone wants to know if you keep back numbers of Foamy Stories.” After he had thrown out the intruder, Roger re- turned to his meditation. “This selection," he mused, “is of course only tentative. It is to act as a preliminary test, to see what sort of thing interests her. First of all, her name naturally suggests Shakespeare and the Elizabethans. It's a remarkable name, Titania Chapman: there must be great virtue in prunes! Let's begin with a volume of Christopher Marlowe. Then Keats, I guess: every young person ought to shiver over St. Agnes' Eve on a bright cold winter evening. Over Bemerton's, certainly, because it's a bookshop story. Eugene Field's Tribune Primer to try out her sense of humour. And Archy, by all means, for the same reason. I'll go down and get the Archy scrapbook.” It should be explained that Roger was a keen admirer of Don Marquis, the humourist of the New York Evening Sun. Mr. Marquis once lived in Brooklyn, and the bookseller was never tired of saying that he was the most eminent author who had graced the borough since the days of Walt Whitman. Archy, the imaginary cockroach whom Mr. Marquis uses as a vehicle for so much excellent fun, was a constant delight to Roger, and he had 82 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP kept a scrapbook of all Archy's clippings. This bulky tome he now brought out from the grotto by his desk where his particular treasures were kept. He ran his eye over it, and Mrs. Mifflin heard him utter shrill screams of laughter. “What on earth is it?" she asked. “Only Archy," he said, and began to read aloud down in a wine vault underneath the city two old men were sitting they were drinking booze torn were their garments hair and beards were gritty one had an overcoat but hardly any shoes overhead the street cars through the streets were running filled with happy people going home to christmas in the adirondacks the hunters all were gunning big ships were sailing down by the isthmus in came a little tot for to kiss her granny such a little totty she could scarcely tottle saying kiss me grandpa kiss your little nanny but the old man beaned her with a whisky bottle outside the snowflakes began for to flutter far at sea the ships were sailing with the seamen not another word did angel nanny utter her grandsire chuckled and pledged the whisky demon up spake the second man he was worn and weary tears washed his face which otherwise was pasty she loved her parents who commuted on the erie brother im afraid you struck a trifle hasty 64 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP cause it's the best farce in the language. Travels with a Donkey, to show her what good writing is like. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to give her a sense of pity for human woes—wait a minute, though: that's a pretty broad book for young ladies. I guess we'll put it aside and see what else there is. Some of Mr. Mosher's cata. logues: fine! they'll show her the true spirit of what one book-lover calls biblio-bliss. Walking-Stick Papers—yes, there are still good essayists running around. A bound file of "The Publishers' Weekly co give her a smack of trade matters. Jo's Boys in case she needs a little relaxation. The Lays of Ancient Rome and Austin Dobson lo show her some good poetry. I wonder if they give them The Lays to read in school nowadays? I have a horrible fear they are brought up on the battle of Salamis and the brutal redcoats of '76. And now we'll be exceptionally subtle: we'll stick in a Robert Chambers to see if she falls for it." He viewed the shelf with pride. “Not bad,” he said to himself. “I'll just add this Leonard Merrick, Whispers about Women, to amuse her. I bet that title will start her guessing. Helen will say I ought to have included the Bible, but I'll omit it on purpose, just to see whether the girl misses it.” With typical male curiosity he pulled out the 99 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 65 bureau drawers to see what disposition his wife had made of them, and was pleased to find a little muslin bag of lavender dispersing a quiet fragrance in each. “Very nice,” he remarked. “Very nice indeed! About the only thing missing is an ash- tray. If Miss Titania is as modern as some of them, that'll be the first thing she'll call for. And maybe a copy of Ezra Pound's poems. I do hope she's not what Helen calls a bolshevixen.” There was nothing bolshevik about a glittering limousine that drew up at the corner of Gissing and Swinburne streets early that afternoon. A chauffeur in green livery opened the door, lifted out a suitcase of beautiful brown leather, and gave a respectful hand to the vision that emerged from depths of lilac-coloured upholstery. “Where do you want me to carry the bag, miss?” “This is the bitter parting,” replied Miss Titania. “I don't want you to know my address, Edwards. Some of my mad friends might worm it out of you, and I don't want them coming down and bothering me. I am going to be very busy with literature. I'll walk the rest of the way.' Edwards saluted with a grin-he worshipped the original young heiress—and returned to his wheel. "There's one thing I want vou to do for me,” 66 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 99 said Titania. “Call up my father and tell him I'm on the job.' “Yes, miss," said Edwards, who would have run the limousine into a government motor truck if she had ordered it. Miss Chapman's small gloved hand descended into an interesting purse that was cuffed to her wrist with a bright little chain. She drew out a nickel-it was characteristic of her that it was a very bright and engaging looking nickel-and handed it gravely to her charioteer. Equally gravely he saluted, and the car, after moving through certain dignified arcs, swam swiftly away down Thackeray Boulevard. Titania, after making sure that Edwards was out of sight, turned up Gissing Street with a fluent pace and an observant eye. A small boy cried, “Carry your bag, lady?” and she was about to agree, but then remembered that she was now engaged at ten dollars a week and waved him away. Our readers would feel a justifiable grudge if we did not attempt a description of the young lady, and we will employ the few blocks of her course along Gissing Street for this purpose. Walking behind her, the observer, by the time she had reached Clemens Place, would have seen that she was faultlessly tailored in genial tweeds; THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 67 that her small brown boots were sheltered by spats of that pale tan complexion exhibited by Pullman porters on the Pennsylvania Railroad; that her person was both slender and vigorous; that her shoulders were carrying a sumptuous fur of the colour described by the trade as nutria, or possibly opal smoke. The word chinchilla would have oc- curred irresistibly to this observer from behind; he might also, if he were the father of a family, have had a fleeting vision of many autographed stubs in a check book. The general impression that he would have retained, had he turned aside at Clemens Place, would be “expensive, but worth the expense.” It is more likely, however, that the student of phenomena would have continued along Gissing Street to the next corner, being that of Hazlitt Street. Taking advantage of opportunity, he would overtake the lady on the pavement, with a secret, sidelong glance. If he were wise, he would pass her on the right side where her tilted bonnet permitted a wider angle of vision. He would catch a glimpse of cheek and chin belonging to the category known (and rightly) as adorable; hair that held sunlight through the dullest day; even a small platinum wrist watch that might pardonably be excused, in its exhilarating career, for beating a trifle fast. Among the greyish furs he would THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 69 rather peevish foundling of the Ritz-Carlton lob- bies and Central Park riding academies, was agreeably amazed by the sweet simplicity of the young lady. “Is this Mr. Mifflin?” she said, as he advanced all agog from his smoky corner. “Miss Chapman?” he replied, taking her bag. “Helen!” he called. “Miss Titania is here." She looked about the sombre alcoves of the shop. "I do think it's adorable of you to take me in," she said. “Dad has told me so much about you. He says I'm impossible. I suppose this is the literature he talks about. I want to know all about it.” 'And here's Bock!” she cried. “Dad says he's the greatest dog in the world, named after Botti- celli or somebody. I've brought him a present. It's in my bag. Nice old Bocky!” Bock, who was unaccustomed to spats, was examining them after his own fashion. “Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Mifflin. “We are delighted to see you. I hope you'll be happy with us, but I rather doubt it. Mr. Mifflin is a hard man to get along with." “Oh, I'm sure of it!" cried Titania. “I mean, I'm sure I shall be happy! You mustn't believe a word of what Dad says about me. I'm crazy 70 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP about books. I don't see how you can bear to sell them. I brought these violets for you, Mrs. Mifflin.” “How perfectly sweet of you,” said Helen, captivated already. “Come along, we'll put them right in water. I'll show you your room." Roger heard them moving about overhead. It suddenly occurred to him that the shop was rather a dingy place for a young girl. “I wish I had thought to get in a cash register,” he mused. “She'll think I'm terribly unbusiness- like.” “Now, ” said Mrs. Mifflin, as she and Titania came downstairs again, “I'm making some pastrý, so I'm going to turn you over to your employer. He can show you round the shop and tell you where all the books are." “Before we begin,” said Titania, "just let me give Bock his present.” She showed a large package of tissue paper and, unwinding innumer- able layers, finally disclosed a stalwart bone. “I was lunching at Sherry's, and I made the head waiter give me this. He was awfully amused." “Come along into the kitchen and give it to him," said Helen. “He'll be your friend for life.” “What an adorable kennel!” cried Titania, when she saw the remodelled packing-case that THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 71 served Bock as a retreat. The bookseller's in- genious carpentry had built it into the similitude of a Carnegie library, with the sign READING- Room over the door; and he had painted imitation book-shelves along the interior. “You'll get used to Mr. Mifflin after a while, said Helen amusedly. “He spent all one winter getting that kennel fixed to his liking. You might have thought he was going to live in it instead of Bock. All the titles that he painted in there are books that have dogs in them, and a lot of them he made up." Titania insisted on getting down to peer inside. Bock was much flattered at this atten. tion from the new planet that had swum into his kennel “Gracious!” she said, “here's "The Rubaiyat of Omar Canine'. I do think that's clever!” "Oh, there are a lot more,” said Helen. “The works of Bonar Law, and Bohn's 'Classics,' and *Catechisms on Dogma’ and goodness knows what. If Roger paid half as much attention to business as he does to jokes of that sort, we'd be rich. Now, you run along and have a look at the shop. Titania found the bookseller at his desk. “Here I am, Mr. Mifflin,” she said. "See, I brought a nice sharp pencil along with me to 72 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP make out sales slips. I've been practicing sticking it in my hair. I can do it quite nicely now. I hope you have some of those big red books with all the carbon paper in them and everything. I've been watching the girls up at Lord and Taylor's make them out, and I think they're fascinating. And you must teach me to run the elevator. I'm awfully keen about elevators.” “Bless me,” said Roger, “You'll find this very different from Lord and Taylor's! We haven't any elevators, or any sales slips, or even a cash register. We don't wait on customers unless they ask us to. They come in and browse round, and if they find anything they want they come back here to my desk and ask about it. The price is marked in every book in red pencil. The cash- box is here on this shelf. This is the key hanging on this little hook. I enter each sale in this ledger. When you sell a book you must write it down here, and the price paid for it.” “But suppose it's charged?” said Titania. “No charge accounts. Everything is cash. If someone comes in to sell books, you must refer him to me. You mustn't be surprised to see people drop in here and spend several hours read- ing. Lots of them look on this as a kind of club. I hope you don't mind the smell of tobacco THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 73 for almost all the men that come here smoke in the shop. You see, I put ash trays around for them.” “I love tobacco smell,” said Titania. “Daddy's library at home smells something like this, but not quite so strong. And I want to see the worms, bookworms you know. Daddy said you had lots of them." “You'll see them, all right,” said Roger, chuck. ling. “They come in and out. To-morrow I'll show you how my stock is arranged. It'll take you quite a while to get familiar with it. Until then I just want you to poke around and see what there is, until you know the shelves so well you could put your hand on any given book in the dark. That's a game my wife and I used to play. We would turn off all the lights at night, and I would call out the title of a book and see how near she could come to finding it. Then I would take a turn. When we came more than six inches away from it we would have to pay a forfeit. It's great fun.” “What larks we'll have," cried Titania. “I do think this is a cunning place!” “This is the bulletin board, where I put up notices about books that interest me. Here's a card I've just been writing.” Roger drewfrom his pocketa square of cardboard 74 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOF and affixed it to the board with a thumbtack, Titania read: THE BOOK THAT SHOULD HAVE PREVENTED THE WAR Now that the fighting is over is a good time to read Thomas Hardy's The Dynasts. I don't want to sell it, because it is one of the greatest treasures I own. But if any one will guarantee to read all three volumes, and let them sink into his mind, I'm willing to lend them. If enough thoughtful Germans had read The Dynasts before July, 1914, there would have been no war. If every delegate to the Peace Conference could be made to read it before the sessions begin, there will be no more wars. R. MIFFLIN. “Dear me," said Titania, “Is it so good as all that? Perhaps I'd better read it.” "It is so good that if I knew any way of doing so I'd insist on Mr. Wilson reading it on his voyage to France. I wish I could get it onto his ship. My, what a book! It makes one positively ill with pity and terror. Sometimes I wake up at night and look out of the window and imagine I hear Hardy laughing. I get him a little mixed up with the Deity, I fear. But he's a bit too hard for you to tackle." Titania was puzzled, and said nothing. But THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 75 her busy mind made a note of its own: Hardy, hard to read, makes one ill, try it. “What did you think of the books I put in your room?” said Roger. He had vowed to wait until she made some comment unsolicited, but he could not restrain himself. "In my room?" she said. “Why; I'm sorry, I never noticed them!” CHAPTER IV THE DISAPPEARING VOLUME W ELL, my dear,” said Roger after supper that evening, “I think perhaps we had better introduce Miss Titania to our custom of reading aloud.” “Perhaps it would bore her?” said Helen. “You know it isn't everybody that likes being read to.” “Oh, I should love it!” exclaimed Titania. “I don't think anybody ever read to me, that is not since I was a child." “Suppose we leave you to look after the shop,” said Helen to Roger, in a teasing mood, "and I'll take Titania out to the movies. I think Tarzan is still riinning.” Whatever private impulses Miss Chapman may have felt, she saw by the bookseller's down- cast face that a visit to Tarzan would break his heart, and she was prompt to disclaim any taste for the screen classic. “Dear me," she said; “Tarzan—that's all that nature stuff by John Burroughs; isn't it? Ob- THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 77 Mrs. Mifflin, I think it would be very tedious. Let's have Mr Mifflin read to us. I'll get down my knitting bag." “You mustn't mind being interrupted,” said Helen. “When anybody rings the bell Roger has to run out and tend the shop.”. “You must let me do it," said Titania. “I want to earn my wages, you know.” "All right,” said Mrs. Mifflin; “Roger, you settle Miss Chapman in the den and give her some thing to look at while we do the dishes.” But Roger was all on fire to begin the reading. “Why don't we postpone the dishes," he said, "just to celebrate?” “Let me help,” insisted Titania. “I should think washing up would be great fun." “No, no, not on your first evening,” said Helen. “Mr. Mifflin and I will finish them in a jiffy." So Roger poked up the coal fire in the den, dis- posed the chairs, and gave Titania a copy of Sartor Resartus to look at. He then vanished into the kitchen with his wife, whence Titania heard the cheerful clank of crockery in a dishpan and the splashing of hot water. “The best thing about washing up,” she heard Roger say, “is that it makes one's hands so clean, novel sensation for a second-hand bookseller.' 78 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP She gave Sartor Resartus what is graphically described as a once over,” and then seeing the morning Times lying on the table, picked it up, as she had not read it. Her eye fell upon the column headed LOST AND FOUND Fifty cents an agate line and as she had recently lost a little pearl brooch, she ran hastily through it. She chuckled a little over LOST-Hotel (mperial lavatory, set of teeth. Call or com- municate Steel, 134 East 43 St. Reward, no questions asked. Then she saw this: LOST—Copy of Thomas Carlyle's "Oliver Cromwell,” be- tween Gissing Street, Brooklyn, and thu Octagon Hotel. If found before midnight, Tuesday, Dec. 3, return to assistant chef, Octagon Hotel. “Why,” she exclaimed, “Gissing Street—that's here! And what a funny kind of book for an assistant chef to read. No wonder their lunches have been so bad lately!” When Roger and Helen rejoined her in the den a few minutes later she showed the bookseller the advertisement. He was very much excited. “That's a funny thing," he said. “There's something queer about that book. Did I tell THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 79 you about it? Last Tuesday-I know it was then because it was the evening young Gilbert was here -a man with a beard came in asking for it, and it wasn't on the shelf. Then the next night, Wednesday, I was up very late writing, and fell asleep at my desk. I must have left the front door ajar, because I was waked up by the draught, and when I went to close the door I saw the book sticking out a little beyond the others, in its usual place. And last night, when the Corn Cobs were here, I went out to look up a quotation in it, and it was gone again.” “Perhaps the assistant chef stole it?” said Titania. “But if so, why the deuce would he advertise having done so?” asked Roger. “Well, if he did steal it,” said Helen, “I wish him joy of it. I tried to read it once, you talked so much about it, and I found it dreadfully dull." "If he did steal it," cried the bookseller, “I'm perfectly delighted. It shows that my conten- tion is right: people do really care for good books. If an assistant chef is so fond of good books that he has to steal them, the world is safe for'democ- racy. Usually the only books any one wants to steal are sheer piffle, like Making Life Worth While by Douglas Fairbanks or Mɔther Shipton's 80 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP Book of Oracles. I don't mind a man stealing books if he steals good ones!” “You see the remarkable principles that govern this business,” said Helen to Titania. They sat down by the fire and took up their knitting while the bookseller ran out to see if the volume had by any chance returned to his shelves. “Is it there?” said Helen, when he came back. “No,” said Roger, and picked up the advertise ment again. “I wonder why he wants it re- turned before midnight on Tuesday?” “So he can read it in bed, I guess," said Helen. “Perhaps he suffers from insomnia.” “It's a darn shame he lost it before he had a chance to read it. I'd like to have known what he thought of it. I've got a great mind to go up and call on him." “Charge it off to profit and loss and forget about it,” said Helen. “How about that reading aloud?" Roger ran his eye along his private shelves, and pulled down a well-worn volume. “Now that Thanksgiving is past,” he said, “my mind always turns to Christmas, and Christ- mas means Charles Dickens. My dear, would it bore you if we had a go at the old Christmas Stories?" Mrs. Mifflin held up her hands in mock dismay. 29 82 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP course. And yet something went out of the world when Victorian England vanished, some- thing that will never come again. Take the stage- coach drivers, for instance. What a racy, human type they were! And what have we now to com- pare with them? Subway guards? Taxicab drivers? I have hung around many an all-night lunchroom to hear the chauffeurs talk. But they are too much on the move, you can't get the pic- ture of them the way Dickens could of his types. You can't catch that sort of thing in a snapshot, you know: you have to have a time exposure. I'll grant you, though, that lunchroom food is mighty good. The best place to eat is always a counter where the chauffeurs congregate. They get awfully hungry, you see, driving round in the cold, and when they want food they want it hot and tasty. There's a little hash-alley called Frank's, up on Broadway near 77th, where I guess the ham and eggs and French fried is as good as any Mr. Pickwick ever ate. “I must get Edwards to take me there," said Titania. "Edwards is our chauffeur. I've been to the Ansonia for tea, that's near there." “Better keep away,” said Helen. “When Roger comes home from those places he smells so strong of onions it brings tears to my eyes.' “We've just been talking about an assistant THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 83 chef,” said Roger; that suggests that I read you Somebody's Luggage, which is all about a head waiter. I have often wished I could get a job as a waiter or a bus boy, just to learn if there really are any such head waiters nowadays. You know there are all sorts of jobs I'd like to have, just to fructify my knowledge of human nature and find out whether life is really as good as literature, I'd love to be a waiter, a barber, a floorwalker “Roger, my dear,” said Helen, "why don't you get on with the reading?” Roger knocked out his pipe, turned Bock out of his chair, and sat down with infinite relish to read the memorable character sketch of Chris- topher, the head waiter, which is dear to every lover of taverns. “The writer of these humble lines being a Waiter,” he began. The knitting needles flashed with diligence, and the dog by the fender stretched himself out in the luxuriant vacancy of mind only known to dogs surrounded by a happy group of their friends. And Roger, enjoying himself enormously, and particularly pleased by the chuckles of his audience, was ap- proaching the ever-delightful items of the coffee- room bill which is to be found about ten pages on in the first chapter-how sad it is that hotel bills are not so rendered in these times when the bell in the 'shop clanged. Picking up his pipe and 84 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP matchbox, and grumbling “It's always the way,* he hurried out of the room. He was agreeably surprised to find that his caller was the young advertising man, Aubrey Gilbert. “Hullo!” he said. “I've been saving some- thing for you. It's a quotation from Joseph Conrad about advertising." “Good enough,” said Aubrey. “And I've got something for you. You were so nice to me the other evening I took the liberty of bringing you round some tobacco. Here's a tin of Blue-Eyed Mixture, it's my favourite. I hope you'll like it.” “Bully for you. Perhaps I ought to let you off the Conrad quotation since you're so kind.” “Not a bit. I suppose it's a knock. Shoot!* The bookseller led the way back to his desk, where he rummaged among the litter and finally found a scrap of paper on which he had written: Being myself animated by feelings of affection toward my fellowmen, I am saddened by the modern system of adver- tising. Whatever evidence it offers of enterprise, ingenuity, impudence, and resource in certain individuals, it proves to my mind the wide prevalence of that form of mental degrada. tion which is called gullibility. JOSEPH CONRAD THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 86 “What do you think of that?” said Roger. "You'll find that in the story called The Ano, archist. “I think less than nothing of it,” said Aubrey. “As your friend Don Marquis observed the other evening, an idea isn't always to be blamed for the people who believe in it. Mr. Conrad has been reading some quack ads, that's all. Because there are fake ads, that doesn't condemn the principle of Publicity. But look here, what I really came round to see you for is to show you this. It was in the Times this morning.” He pulled out of his pocket a clipping of the LOST insertion to which Roger's attention had already been drawn. “Yes, I've just seen it,” said Roger. “I missed the book from my shelves, and I believe someone must have stolen it." "Well, now, I want to tell you something," said Aubrey. “To-night I had dinner at the Octagon with Mr. Chapman.” “Is that so?” said Roger. “You know his daughter's here now.” “So he told me. It's rather interesting how it all works out. You see, after you told me the other day that Miss Chapman was coming to work for you, that gave me an idea. I knew her father would be specially interested in Brooklyn, on that >> 86 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP account, and it suggested to me an idea for a window-display campaign here in Brooklyn for the Daintybits Products. You know we handle all his sales promotion campaigns. Of course I didn't let on that I knew about his daughter coming over here, but he told me about it himself in the course of our talk. Well, here's what I'm getting at. We had dinner in the Czecho-Slovak Grill, up on the fourteenth floor, and going up in the elevator I saw a man in a chef's uniform carry- ing a book. I looked over his shoulder to see what it was. I thought of course it would be a cook book. It was a copy of Oliver Cromwell." “So he found it again, eh? I must go and have a talk with that chap. If he's a Carlyle fan I'd like to know him." “Wait a minute. I had seen the LOST ad in the paper this morning, because I always look over that column. Often it gives me ideas for advertising stunts. If you keep an eye on the things people are anxious to get back, you know what they really prize, and if you know what they prize you can get a line on what goods ought to be advertised more extensively. This was the first time I had ever noticed a LOST ad for a book. so I thought to myself “the book business is com- ing up." Well, when I saw the chef with the book in his hand, I said to him jokingly “I see THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 87 you found it again.” He was a foreign-looking fellow, with a big beard, which is unusual for a chef, because I suppose it's likely to get in the soup. He looked at me as though I'd run a cary- ing knife into him, almost scared me the way he looked. “Yes, yes,” he said, and shoved the book out of sight under his arm. He seemed half angry and half frightened, so I thought may- be he had no right to be riding in the passenger elevator and was scared someone would report him to the manager. Just as we were getting to the fourteenth floor I said to him in a whisper, "It's all right, old chap, I'm not going to report you. I give you my word he looked more scared than before. He went quite white. I got off at the fourteenth, and he followed me out. I thought he was going to speak to me, but Mr. Chapman was there in the lobby,and he didn't have a chance. But I noticed that he watched me into the grill room as though I was his last chance of salvation." "I guess the poor devil was scared you'd report him to the police for stealing the book," said Roger. “Never mind, let him have it." “Did he steal it?" “I haven't a notion. But somebody did, be cause it disappeared from here." “Well, now, wait a minute. Here's the queer part of it. I didn't think anything more about 88 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP it, except that it was a funny coincidence my seeing him after having noticed that ad in the paper. I had a long talk with Mr. Chapman, and we dis- cussed some plans for a prune and Saratoga chip campaign, and I showed him some suggested copy I had prepared. Then he told me about his daughter, and I let on that I knew you. I left the Octagon about eight o'clock, and I thought I'd run over here on the subway just to show you the LOST notice and give you this tobacco. And when I got off the subway at Atlantic Avenue, who should I see but friend chef again. He got off the same train I did. He had on civilian clothes then, of course, and when he was out of his white uniform and pancake hat I recognized him right off. Who do you suppose it was?” “Can't imagine,” said Roger, highly interested by this time. “Why, the professor looking guy who came in to ask for the book the first night I was here." “Humph! Well, he must be keen about Carlyle, because he was horribly disappointed that evening when he asked for the book and I couldn't find it. I remember how he insisted that I must have it, and I hunted all through the History shelves to make sure it hadn't got mis- palaced. He said that some friend of his had seen it here, and he had come right round to buy it. I told 90 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP friendly terrier; but with the intense focus of an intelligent young male mind these were all merely appurtenances to the congenial spectacle of the employee. How quickly a young man's senses assemble and assimilate the data that are really relevant! Without seeming even to look in that direction he had performed the most amazing feat of lightning calculation known to the human faculties. He had added up all the young ladies of his acquaintance, and found the sum total less than the girl before him. He had subtracted the new phenomenon from the universe as he knew it, including the solar system and the ad- vertising business, and found the remainder a minus quantity. He had multiplied the contents of his intellect by a factor he had no reason to assume “constant," and was startled at what teachers call (I believe) the "product.” And he had divided what was in the left-hand armchair into his own career, and found no room for a quotient. All of which transpired in the length of time necessary for Roger to push forward another chair. With the politeness desirable in a well-bred youth, Aubrey's first instinct was to make himself square with the hostess. Resolutely he occluded blue eyes, silk shirtwaist, and admirable chip from his mental vision. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 91 "It's awfully good of you to let me come in," he said to Mrs. Mifflin. “I was here the other evening and Mr. Mifflin insisted on my staying to supper with him.” “I'm very glad to see you," said Helen. “Roger told me about you. I hope he didn't poison you with any of his outlandish dishes. Wait till he tries you with brandied peaches à la Harold Bell Wright.” Aubrey uttered some genial reassurance, still making the supreme sacrifice of keeping his eyes away from where (he felt) they belonged. “Mr. Gilbert has just had a queer experience,” said Roger. “Tell them about it." In the most reckless way, Aubrey permitted himself to be impaled upon a direct and interested flash of blue lightning. “I was having dinner with your father at the Octagon." The high tension voltage of that bright blue cur- rent felt like ohm sweet ohm, but Aubrey dared not risk too much of it at once. Fearing to blow out a fuse, he turned in panic to Mrs. Mifflin. “You see,” he explained, “I write a good deal of Mr. Chapman's advertising for him. We had an appointment to discuss some business matters. We're planning a big barrage on prunes.' “Dad works much too hard, don't you think?” said Titania. 92 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP Aubrey welcomed this as a pleasant avenue of discussion leading into the parkland of Miss Chapman's family affairs; but Roger insisted on his telling the story of the chef and the copy of Cromwell. “And he followed you here?” exclaimed Titania. “What fun! I had no idea the book business was so exciting.” “Better lock the door to-night, Roger," said Mrs. Mifflin, “or he may walk off with a set of the Encyclopædia Britannica." “Why, my dear,” said Roger, “I think this is grand news. Here's a man, in a humble walk of life, so keen about good books that he even pickets a bookstore on the chance of swiping some. It's the most encouraging thing I've ever heard of. I must write to the Publishers' Weekly about it." “Well,” said Aubrey, “you mustn't let me interrupt your little party.” “You're not interrupting,” said Roger. “We were only reading aloud. Do you know Dickens' Christmas Stories?” “I'm afraid I don't.” “Suppose we go on reading, shall we?” "Please do.” “Yes, do go on," said Titania. “Mr. Mifflin was just reading about a most adorable head waiter in a London chop house." THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 99 Aubrey begged permission to light his pipe, and Roger picked up the book. “But before we read the items of the coffee-room bill," he said, “I think it only right that we should have a little refreshment. This passage should never be read without something to accompany it. My dear, what do you say to a glass of sherry all round?” “It is sad to have to confess it," said Mrs. Mifflin to Titania, “Mr. Mifflin can never read Dickens without having something to drink. I think the sale of Dickens will fall off terribly when prohibition comes in.” “I once took the trouble to compile a list of the amount of liquor drunk in Dickens' works,” said! Roger, “and I assure you the total was astound- ing: 7,000 hogsheads, I believe it was. Calcula- tions of that sort are great fun. I have always intended to write a little essay on the rainstorms in the stories of Robert Louis Stevenson. You see R. L. S. was a Scot, and well acquainted with wet weather. Excuse me a moment, I'll just run down cellar and get up a bottle.” Roger left the room, and they heard his steps passing down into the cellar. Bock, after the manner of dogs, followed him. The smells of cellars are a rare treat to dogs, especially ancient Brooklyn cellars which have a cachet all their 94 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP own. The cellar of the Haunted Bookshop was, to Bock, a fascinating place, illuminated by a warm glow from the furnace, and piled high with split packing-cases which Roger used as kindling. From below came the rasp of a shovel among coal, and the clear, musical slither as the lumps were thrown from the iron scoop onto the fire. Just then the bell rang in the shop. “Let me go,” said Titania, jumping up. “Can't I ?” said Aubrey. “Nonsense!” said Mrs. Mifflin, laying down her knitting. “Neither of you knows anything about the stock. Sit down and be comfortable. I'll be right back.” Aubrey and Titania looked at each other with a. touch of embarrassment. “Your father sent you his—his kind regards," said Aubrey. That was not what he had intended to say, but somehow he could not utter the word. “He said not to read all the books at once.” Titania laughed. “How funny that you should run into him just when you were coming here. He's a duck, isn't he?” “Well, you see I only know him in a business way, but he certainly is a corker. He believes in advertising, too.” “Are you crazy about books?" “Why, I never really had very much to do with THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 98 them. I'm afraid you'll think I'm terribly ignor ant “Not at all. I'm awfully glad to meet someone who doesn't think it's a crime not to have read all the books there are.” “This is a queer kind of place, isn't it?” “Yes, it's a funny idea to call it the Haunted Bookshop. I wonder what it means.” “Mr. Mifflin told me it meant haunted by the ghosts of great literature. I hope they won't annoy you. The ghost of Thomas Carlyle seems to be pretty active." “I'm not afraid of ghosts,” said Titani Aubrey gazed at the fire. He wanted to say that he intended from now on to do a little haunt- ing on his own account but he did not know just how to break it gently. And then Roger returned from the cellar with the bottle of sherry. As he was uncorking it, they heard the shop door close, and Mrs. Mifflin came in. “Well, Roger,” she said; “if you think so much of your old Cromwell, you'd better keep it in here. Here it is." She laid the book on the table. “For the love of Mike!” exclaimed Roger. "Who brought it back?” "I guess it was your friend the assistant chef,” said Mrs. Mifflin. “Anyway, he had a beard like a Christmas tree. He was mighty polite. 1 .96 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP He said he was terribly absent minded, and that the other day he was in here looking at some books and just walked off with it without knowing what he was doing. He offered to pay for the trouble he had caused, but of course I wouldn't let him. I asked if he wanted to see you, but he said he was in a hurry.” "I'm almost disappointed,” said Roger. “I thought that I had turned up a real booklover. Here we are, all hands drink the health of Mr. Thomas Carlyle.” The toast was drunk, and they settled them- selves in their chairs. “And here's to the new employee,” said Helen. This also was dispatched, Aubrey draining his glass with a zeal which did not escape Miss Chap- man's discerning eye. Roger then put out his hand for the Dickens. But first he picked up his beloved Cromwell. He looked at it carefully, and then held the volume close to the light. “The mystery's not over yet,” he said. “It's been rebound. This isn't the original binding.” “Are you sure?” said Helen in surprise. “It looks the same.” “The binding has been cleverly imitated, but it can't fool me. In the first place, there was a rubbed corner at the top; and there was an ink stain on one of the end papers." THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 97 “There's still a stain there,” said Aubrey, look- ing over his shoulder. “Yes, but not the same stain. I've had that book long enough to know it by heart. Now what the deuce would that lunatic want to have it rebound for?” “Goodness gracious,” said Helen, “put it away and forget about it. We'll all be dreaming about Carlyle if you're not careful.” CHAPTER V AUBREY WALKS PART WAY HOMELAND RIDES THE REST OF THE WAY T WAS a cold, clear night as Mr. Aubrey Gil- bert left the Haunted Bookshop that even- ing, and set out to walk homeward. Without making a very conscious choice, he felt instinctively that it would be agreeable to walk back to Man. hattan rather than permit the roaring disillusion of the subway to break in upon his meditations. It is to be feared that Aubrey would have badly flunked any quizzing on the chapters of Somebody's Luggage which the bookseller had read aloud. His mind was swimming rapidly in the agreeable, unfettered fashion of a stream rippling downhill. As 0. Henry puts it in one of his most delightful stories: “He was outwardly decent and managed to preserve his aquarium, but inside he was im- promptu and full of unexpectedness.” To say that he was thinking of Miss Chapman would imply too much power of ratiocination and abstract scrutiny on his part. He was not thinking: he was being thought Down the accustomed chan- 98 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 99 nels of his intellect he felt his mind ebbing with the irresistible movement of tides drawn by the blandishing moon. And across these shimmering estuaries of impulse his will, a lost and naked athlete, was painfully attempting to swim, but making much leeway and already almost resigned to being carried out to sea. He stopped a moment at Weintraub's drug store, on the corner of Gissing Street and Words- worth Avenue, to buy some cigarettes, unfailing solace of an agitated bosom. It was the usual old-fashioned pharmacy of those parts of Brooklyn: tall red, green, and blue vases of liquid in the windows threw blotches of coloured light onto the pavement; on the panes was affixed white china lettering: H. WE TRAUB, DEUT CHE APOTHEKER. Inside, the cus- tomary shelves of labelled jars, glass cases holding cigars, nostrums and toilet knick-knacks, and in one corner an ancient revolving bookcase de- posited long ago by the Tabard Inn Library. The shop was empty, but as he opened the door a bell buzzed sharply. In a back chamber he could hear voices. As he waited idly for the druggist to appear, Aubrey cast a tolerant eye over the dusty volumes in the twirling case. There were the usual copies of Harold MacGrath's The Man on the Box, A Girl of the Limberlost, and The House THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 101 druggist held out the packet, and Aubrey noticed that his fingers were stained a deep saffron colour. “I see you're a cigarette smoker, too,” said Aubrey pleasantly, as he opened the packet and lit one of the paper tubes at a little alcohol flame burning in a globe of blue glass on the counter. “Me? I never smoke,” said Mr. Weintraub, with a smile which somehow did not seem to fit his surly face. “I must have steady nerves in my profession. Apothecaries who smoke make up bad prescriptions. “Well, how do you get your hands stained that way?” Mr. Weintraub removed his hands from the counter. “Chemicals,” he grunted. “Prescriptions all that sort of thing. “Well,” said Aubrey, “smoking's a bad habit. I guess I do too much of it.” He could not resist the impression that someone was listening to their talk. The doorway at the back of the shop was veiled by a portière of beads and thin bamboo sections threaded on strings. He heard them clicking as though they had been momentarily pulled aside. Turning, just as he opened the door to leave, he noticed the bamboo curtain swaying. “Weli, good-night,” he said, and stepped out into the street. 4 102 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP As he walked down Wordsworth Avenue, under the thunder of the L, past lighted lunchrooms, oyster saloons, and pawnshops, Miss Chapman resumed her sway. With the delightful velocity of thought his mind whirled in a narrowing spiral round the experience of the evening. The small book-crammed sitting room of the Mifflins, the sparkling fire, the lively chirrup of the bookseller reading aloud-and there, in the old easy chair whose horsehair stuffing was bulging out, that blue-eyed vision of careless girlhood! Happily he had been so seated that he could study her with- out seeming to do so. The line of her ankle where the firelight danced upon it put Coles Phillips to shame, he averred. Extraordinary, how these creatures are made to torment us with their in tolerable comeliness! Against the background of dusky bindings her head shone with a soft haze of gold. Her face, that had an air of naïve and provoking independence, made him angry with its unnecessary surplus of enchantment. An unaccountable gust of rage drove him rapidly along the frozen street. “Damn it,” he cried, "what right has any girl to be as pretty as that? Why-why, I'd like to beat her!” he muttered, amazed at himself. “What the devil right has a girl got to look so innocently adorable?” It would be unseemly to follow poor Aubrey in sisi THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 103 nis vacillations of rage and worship as he thrashed along Wordsworth Avenue, hearing and seeing no more than was necessary for the preservation of his life at street crossings. Half-smoked cigarette stubs glowed in his wake;* his burly bosom echoed with incoherent oratory. In the darker stretches of Fulton Street that lead up to the Brooklyn Bridge he fiercely exclaimed: "By God, it's not such a bad world.” As he ascended the slope of that vast airy span, a black midget against a froth of stars, he was gravely planning such vehemence of exploit in the advertising profession as would make it seem less absurd to approach the President of the Daintybits Corporation with a question for which no progenitor of loveliness is ever quite prepared. In the exact centre of the bridge something diluted his mood; he halted, leaning against the railing, to consider the splendour of the scene. The hour was late-moving on toward midnight-but in the tall black precipices of Manhattan scattered lights gleamed, in an odd, irregular pattern like the sparse punctures on the raffle-board—“take a chance on a Milk-Fed Turkey”--the East Indian elevator- boy presents to apartment-house tenants about Hallowe'en. A fume of golden light eddied over *NOTE WHILE PROOFREADING: Surely this phrase was unconsciously lifted from R. L. S. But where does the original occur? C. D. M. 104 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP uptown merriment: he could see the ruby beacon on the Metropolitan Tower signal three quarters. Underneath the airy decking of the bridge a tug went puffing by, her port and starboard lamps trailing red and green threads over the tideway. Some great argosy of the Staten Island fleet swept serenely down to St. George, past Liberty in her soft robe of light, carrying theatred commuters, dazed with weariness and blinking at the raw fury of the electric bulbs. Overhead the night was a superb arch of clear frost, sifted with stars. Blue sparks crackled stickily along the trolley wires as the cars groaned over the bridge. Aubrey surveyed all this splendid scene without exact observation. He was of a philosophic turn, and was attempting to console his discomfiture in the overwhelming lustre of Miss Titania by the thought that she was, after all, the creature and offspring of the science he worshipped—that of Advertising. Was not the fragrance of her pres- ence, the soft compulsion of her gaze, even the delirious frill of muslin at her wrist, to be set down to the credit of his chosen art? Had he not, pon- dering obscurely upon “attention-compelling" copy and lay-out and type-face, in a corner of the Grey-Matter office, contributed to the triumphant prosperity and grace of this unconscious benefi- ciary? Indeed she seemed to him, fiercely tore THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 105 menting himself with her loveliness, a symbol of the mysterious and subtle power of publicity. It was Advertising that had done this—that had enabled Mr. Chapman, a shy and droll little per- son, to surround this girl with all the fructifying glories of civilization—to foster and cherish her until she shone upon the earth like a morning star ! Advertising had clothed her, Advertising had fed her, schooled, roofed, and sheltered her. In a sense she was the crowning advertisement of her father's career, and her innocent perfection taunted him just as much as the bright sky-sign he knew was flashing the words CHAPMAN PRUNES above the teeming pavements of Times Square. He groaned to think that he himself, by his conscientious labours, had helped to put this girl in such a po- sition that he could hardly dare approach her. He would never have approached her again, on any pretext, if the intensity of his thoughts had not caused him, unconsciously, to grip the railing of the bridge with strong and angry hands. For at that moment a sack' was thrown over his head from behind and he was violently seized by the legs, with the obvious intent of hoisting him over the parapet. His unexpected grip on the railing delayed this attempt just long enough to save him. Swept off his feet by the fury of the assault, he fel! sideways against the barrier and had the goor 106 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP fortune to seize his enemy by the leg. Muffiled in the sacking, it was vain to cry out; but he held furiously to the limb he had grasped and he and his attacker rolled together on the footway. Aub- rey was a powerful man, and even despite the surprise could probably have got the better of the situation; but as he wrestled desperately and tried to rid himself of his hood, a crashing blow fell upon his head, half stunning him. He lay sprawled out, momentarily incapable of struggle, yet conscious enough to expect, rather curiously, the dizzying sensation of a drop through insupportable air into the icy water of the East River. Hands seized him-and then, passively, he heard a shout, the sound of footsteps running on the planks, and other footsteps hurrying away at top speed. In a moment the sacking was torn from his head and a friendly pedestrian was kneeling beside him. “Say, are you all right?” said the latter anx- iously. “Gee, those guys nearly got you." Aubrey was too faint and dizzy to speak for a moment. His head was numb and he felt certain that several inches of it had been caved in. Putting up his hand, feebly, he was surprised to find the contours of his skull much the same as usual. The stranger propped him against his knee and wiped away a trickle of blood with his handkerchief. "Say, old man, I thought you was a goner," he THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 107 said sympathetically. “I seen those fellows jump you. Too bad they got away. Dirty work, I'll say so.' Aubrey gulped the night air, and sat up. The bridge rocked under him; against the star-speckled sky he could see the Woolworth Building bending and jazzing like a poplar tree in a gale. He felt very sick. “Ever so much obliged to you,” he stammered, “I'll be all right in a minute." “Dº you want me to go and ring up a nambu- lance?” said his assistant. “No, no,” said Aubrey; "I'll be all right." He staggered to his feet and clung to the rail of the bridge, trying to collect his wits. One phrase ran over and over in his mind with damnable itera- tion—“Mild, but they satisfy!” “Where were you going?” said the other, sup- porting him. “Madison Avenue and Thirty-Second- “Maybe I can flag a jitney for you. Here,' he cried, as another citizen approached afoot, “Give this fellow a hand. Someone beat him over the bean with a club. I'm going to get him a lift.” The newcomer readily undertook the friendly task, and tied Aubrey's handkerchief round his head, which was bleeding freely. After a few moments the first Samaritan succeeded in stopp- > 108 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP ing a touring car which was speeding over from Brooklyn. The driver willingly agreed to take Aubrey home, and the other two helped him in. Barring a nasty gash on his scalp he was none the worse. >> “A fellow needs a tin hat if he's going to wander round Long Island at night,” said the motorist genially. “Two fellows tried to hold me up com- ing in from Rockville Centre the other evening. Maybe they were the same two that picked on you. Did you get a look at them?” “No,” said Aubrey. “That piece of sacking might have helped me trace them, but I forgot it." “Want to run back for it?" “Never mind,” said Aubrey. “I've got a hunch about this.” “Think you know who it is? Maybe you're in politics, hey?” The car ran swiftly up the dark channel of the Bowery, into Fourth Avenue, and turned off at Thirty-Second Street to deposit Aubrey in front of his boarding house. He thanked his convoy heartily, and refused further assistance. After several false shots he got his latch key in the lock, climbed four creaking flights, and stumbled into his room. Groping his way to the wash-basin, he bathed his throbbing head, tied a towel round it, and fell into bed. 1 CHAPTER VI TITANIA LEARNS THE BUSINESS A LTHOUGH he kept late hours, Roger Mifflin was a prompt riser. It is only the very young who find satisfaction in lying abed in the morning. Those who approach the term of the fifth decade are sensitively aware of the fluency of life, and have no taste to squander it among the blankets. The bookseller's morning routine was brisk and habitual. He was generally awakened about half-past seven by the jangling bell that balanced on a coiled spring at the foot of the stairs. This ringing announced the arrival of Becky, the old scrubwoman who came each morning to sweep out the shop and clean the floors for the day's traffic. Roger, in his old dressing gown of vermilion flan- nel, would scuffle down to let her in, picking up the milk bottles and the paper bag of baker's rolls at the same time. As Becky propped the front door wide, opened window transoms, and set about buffeting dust and tobacco smoke, Roger would take the milk and rolls back to the kitchen and 109 110 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP give Bock a morning greeting. Bock would emerge from his literary kennel, and thrust out his forelegs in a genial obeisance. This was partly politeness, and partly to straighten out his spine after its all-night curvature. Then Roger would let him out into the back yard for a run, himself standing on the kitchen steps to inhale the bright freshness of the morning air. This Saturday morning was clear and crisp. The plain backs of the homes along Whittier Street, irregular in profile as the margins of a free verse poem, offered Roger an agreeable human pano- rama. Thin strands of smoke were rising from chimneys; a belated baker's wagon was joggling down the alley; in bedroom bay-windows sheets and pillows were already set to sun and air. Brooklyn, admirable borough of homes and hearty breakfasts, attacks the morning hours in cheery, smiling spirit. Bock sniffed and rooted about the small back yard as though the earth (every cubic inch of which he already knew by rote) held some new entrancing flavour. Roger watched him with the amused and tender con- descension one always feels toward a happy dog- perhaps the same mood of tolerant paternalism that Gott is said to have felt in watching his bois- terous Hohenzollerns. The nipping air began to infiltrate his dressing THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 111 gown, and Roger returned to the kitchen, his small, lively face alight with zest. He opened the draughts in the range, set a kettle on to boil, and went down to resuscitate the furnace. As he came upstairs for his bath, Mrs. Mifflin was de- scending, fresh and hearty in a starchy morning apron. Roger hummed a tune as he picked up the hairpins on the bedroom floor, and wondered to himself why women are always supposed to be more tidy than men. Titania was awake early. She smiled at the enigmatic portrait of Samuel Butler, glanced at the row of books over her bed, and dressed rapidly. She ran downstairs, eager to begin her experience as a bookseller. The first impression the Haunted Bookshop had made on her was one of superfluous dinginess, and as Mrs. Mifflin refused to let her help get breakfast-except set out the salt cellars- she ran down Gissing Street to a little florist's shop she had noticed the previous afternoon, Here she spent at least a week's salary in buying chrysan- themums and a large pot of white keather. She was distributing these about the shop when Roger found her. “Bless my soul!” he said. “How are you go- ing to live on your wages if you do that sort of thing? Pay-day doesn't come until next Friday!” “Just one blow-out,” she said cheerfully. “I 66 112 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP thought it would be fun to brighten the place up & bit. Think how pleased your floorwalker will be when he comes in!” “Dear me,” said Roger. “I hope you don't really think we have floorwalkers in the second- hand book business.” After breakfast he set about initiating his new employee into the routine of the shop. As he moved about, explaining the arrangement of his shelves, he kept up a running commentary. “Of course all the miscellaneous information that a bookseller has to have will only come to you gradually,” he said. “Such tags of bookshop lore as the difference between Philo Gubb and Philip Gibbs, Mrs. Wilson Woodrow and Mrs. Woodrow Wilson, and all that sort of thing. Don't be frightened by all the ads you see for a book called “Bell and Wing,” because no one was ever heard to ask for a copy. That's one of the reasons why I tell Mr. Gilbert I don't believe in advertising, Someone may ask you who wrote The Winning of the Best, and you'll have to know it wasn't Colonel Roosevelt but Mr. Ralph Waldo Trine. The beauty of being a bookseller is that you don't have to be a literary critic: all you have to do to books is enjoy them. A literary critic is the kind of fellow who will tell you that Wordsworth's Happy Warrior is a poem of 85 lines composed THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 113 entirely of two sentences, one of 26 lines and one of 59. What does it matter if Wordsworth wrote sentences almost as long as those of Walt Whit- man or Mr. Will H. Hayes, if only he wrote a great poem? Literary critics are queer birds. There's Professor Phelps of Yale, for instance. He publishes a book in 1918 and calls it The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century. To my way of thinking a book of that title oughtn't to be published until 2018. Then somebody will come along and ask you for a book of poems about e typewriter, and bye and bye you'll learn that what they want is Stevenson's Underwoods. Yes, it's a complicated life. Never argue with cus- tomers. Just give them the book they ought to have even if they don't know they want it." They went outside the front door, and Roger lit his pipe. In the little area in front of the shop windows stood large empty boxes supported on trestles. “The first thing I always do said. “The first thing you'll both do is catch your death of cold," said Helen over his shoulder. “Titania, you run and get your fur. Roger, go and find your cap. With your bald head, you ought to know better!” When they returned to the front door, Titania's blue eyes were sparkling above her soft tippet. » he 116 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP very deep reader, but at any rate Dad has taught me a respect for good books. He gets so mad because when my friends come to the house, and he asks them what they've been reading, the only thing they seem to know about is Dere Mable.” Roger chuckled. “I hope you don't think I'm a mere highbrow,” he said. “As a customer said to me once, without meaning to be funny, 'I like both the Iliad and the Argosy.' The only thing I can't stand is literature that is unfairly and in- tentionally flavoured with vanilla. Confectionery soon disgusts the palate, whether you find it in Marcus Aurelius or Doctor Crane. There's an odd aspect of the matter that sometimes strikes me: Doc Crane’s remarks are just as true as Lord Bacon's, so how is it that the Doctor puts me to sleep in a paragraph, while my Lord's essays keep me awake all night?” Titania, being unacquainted with these philoso- phers, pursued the characteristic feminine course of clinging to the subject on which she was in- formed. The undiscerning have called this habit of mind irrelevant, but wrongly. The feminine intellect leaps like a grasshopper; the masculine plods as the ant. “I see there's a new Mable book coming," she said. “It's called That's Me All Over Mable, THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 117 and the newsstand clerk at the Octagon says he expects to sell a thousand copies.” “Well, there's a meaning in that,” said Roger. “People have a craving to be amused, and I'm sure I don't blame 'em. I'm afraid I haven't read Dere Mable. If it's really amusing, I'm glad they read it. I suspect it isn't a very great book, be- cause a Philadelphia schoolgirl has written a reply to it called Dere Bill, which is said to be as good as the original. Now you can hardly imagine a Philadelphia flapper writing an effective compan- ion to Bacon's Essays. But never mind, if the stuff's amusing, it has its place. The human yearning for innocent pastime is a pathetic thing, come to think about it. It shows what a desper- ately grim thing life has become. One of the most significant things I know is that breathless, ex- pectant, adoring hush that falls over a theatre at a Saturday matinee, when the house goes dark and the footlights set the bottom of the curtain in a glow, and the latecomers tank over your feet climb ing into their seats” “Isn't it an adorable moment!” cried Titania. “Yes, it is,” said Roger; "but it makes me sad to see what tosh is handed out to that eager, ex- pectant audience, most of the time. There they all are, ready to be thrilled, eager to be worked apon, deliberately putting themselves into that THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 119 “But a joke that seems cheap to you doesn't seem cheap to the person who laughs at it, or he wouldn't laugh." Her face brightened as a fresh idea flooded her mind: “The wooden image a savage prays to may seem cheap to you, but it's the best god he knows, and it's all right for him to pray to it.” “Bully for you,” said Roger. “Perfectly true. But I've got away from the point I had in mind. Humanity is yearning now as it never did before for truth, for beauty, for the things that comfort and console and make life seem worth while. I feel this all round me, every day. We've been through a frightful ordeal, and every decent spirit is asking itself what we can do to pick up the fragments and remould the world nearer to our heart's desire. Look here, here's something I found the other day in John Masefield's preface to one of his plays: “The truth and rapture of man are holy things, not lightly to be scorned. A care- lessness of life and beauty marks the glutton, the idler, and the fool in their deadly path across history.” “I tell you, I've done some pretty sober think- ing as I've sat here in my bookshop during the past horrible years. Walt Whitman wrote a little poem during the Civil War-Year that trembied ind reeled beneath me. said Walt, Must I learn to 120 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP chant the cold dirges of the baffled, and sullen hymng of defeat ?—I've sat here in my shop at night, and looked round at my shelves, looked at all the brave books that house the hopes and gentle- nesses and dreams of men and women, and won- dered if they were all wrong, discredited, defeated. Wondered if the world were still merely a jungle of fury. I think I'd have gone balmy if it weren't for Walt Whitman. Talk about Mr. Britling- Walt was the man who ‘saw it through.' "The glutton, the idler, and the fool in their deadly path across history. Aye, a deadly path indeed. The German military men weren't idlers, but they were gluttons and fools to the nth power. Look at their deadly path! And look at other deadly paths, too. Look at our slums, jails, insane asylums. “I used to wonder what I could do to justify my comfortable existence here during such a time of horror. What right had I to shirk in a quiet bookshop when so many men were suffering and dying through no fault of their own? I tried to get into an ambulance unit, but I've had no medi- cal training and they said they didn't wart men of my age unless they were experienced doctors.” “I know how you felt,” said Titania, with a surprising look of comprehension. “Don't you suppose that a great many girls, who couldn't der THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 121 anything real to help, got tired of wearing neat little uniforms with Sam Browne belts?” “Well,” said Roger, “it was a bad time. The war contradicted and denied everything I had ever lived for. Oh, I can't tell you how I felt about it. I can't even express it to myself. Sometimes I used to feel as I think that truly noble simpleton Henry Ford may have felt when he organized his peace voyage that I would do anything, however stupid, to stop it all. In a world where everyone was so wise and cynical and cruel, it was admirable to find a man so utterly simple and hopeful as Henry. A boob, they called him. Well, I say bravo for boobs! I daresay most of the apostles were boobs—or maybe they called them bol. sheviks." Titania had only the vaguest notion about bolsheviks, but she had seen a good many news- paper cartoons. “I guess Judas was a bolshevik,” she said in nocently. “Yes, and probably George the Third called Ben Franklin a bolshevik,” retorted Roger. “The trouble is, truth and falsehood don't come laid out in black and whiteTruth and Huntruth, as the wartime joke had it. Sometimes I thought Truth had vanished from the earth,” he cried bitterly. *Like everything else, it was rationed by the 122 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP governments. I taught myself to disbelieve hah of what I read in the papers. I saw the world clawing itself to shreds in blind rage. I saw hardly any one brave enough to face the brutalizing ab- surdity as it really was, and describe it. I saw the glutton, the idler, and the fool applauding, while brave and simple men walked in the horrors of hell. The stay-at-home poets turned it to pretty lyrics of glory and sacrifice. Perhaps hay a dozen of them have told the truth. Have you read Sassoon? Or Latzko's Men in War, which was so damned true that the government sup- pressed it? Humph! Putting Truth on rations!” ! He knocked out his pipe against his heel, and his blue eyes shone with a kind of desperate earnest- ness. “But I tell you, the world is going to have the truth about War. We're going to put an end to this madness. It's not going to be easy. Just now, in the intoxication of the German collapse, we're all rejoicing in our new happiness. I tell you, the real Peace will be a long time coming.! When you tear up all the fibres of civilization its a slow job to knit things together again. You see those children going down the street to school? Peace lies in their hands. When they are taught in school that War is the most loathsome scourge humanity is subject to, that it smirches and fouls THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 123 every lovely occupation of the mortal spirit, then there may be some hope for the future. But I'd like to bet they are having it drilled into them that war is a glorious and noble sacrifice.” “The people who write poems about the divine frenzy of going over the top are usually those who dipped their pens a long, long way from the slimy duckboards of the trenches. It's funny how we hate to face realities. I knew a commuter once who rode in town every day on the 8.13. But he used to call it the 7.73. He said it made him feel more virtuous." There was a pause, while Roger watched some belated urchins hurrying toward school. “I think any man would be a traitor to hus manity who didn't pledge every effort of his waking life to an attempt to make war impossible in future.” “Surely no one would deny that,” said Titania. “But I do think the war was very glorious as well as very terrible. I've known lots of men who went over, knowing well what they were to face, and yet went gladly and humbly in the thought they were going for a true cause.' “A cause which is so true shouldn't need the sacrifice of millions of fine lives,” said Roger gravely. “Don't imagine I don't see the dreadful nobility of it. But poor humanity shouldn't be 124 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP asked to be noble at such a cost. That's the most pitiful tragedy of it all. Don't you suppose the Germans thought they too were marching off for a noble cause when they began it and forced this misery on the world? They had been edu- cated to believe so, for a generation. That's the terrible hypnotism of war, the brute mass-impulse, the pride and national spirit, the instinctive simplicity of men that makes them worship what is their own above everything else. I've thrilled and shouted with patriotic pride, like everyone. Music and flags and men marching in step have bewitched me, as they do all of us. And then I've gone home and sworn to root this evil instinct out of my soul. God help us—let's love the world, love humanity-not just our own country! That's why I'm so keen about the part we're going to play at the Peace Conference. Our motto over there will be America Last! Hurrah for us, I say, for we shall be the only nation over there with absolutely no axe to grind. Nothing but a pax to grind!” It argued well for Titania's breadth of mind that she was not dismayed nor alarmed at the poor bookseller's anguished harangue. She surmised sagely that he was cleansing his bosom of much perilous stuff. In some mysterious way she had learned the greatest and rarest of the spirit's gifts -toleration. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOF 125 "You can't help loving your country,” she said. “Let's go indoors," he answered. “You'll catch cold out here. I want to show you my alcove of books on the war." “Of course one can't help loving one's country," he added. “I love mine so much that I want to see her take the lead in making a new era possible. She has sacrificed least for war, she should be ready to sacrifice most for peace. As for me,' he said, smiling, “I'd be willing to sacrifice the whole Republican party!” “I don't see why you call the war an absurdity," said Titania. “We had to beat Germany, or where would civilization have been?” “We had to beat Germany, yes, but the absurd ity lies in the fact that we had to beat ourselves in doing it. The first thing you'll find, when the Peace Conference gets to work, will be that we shall have to help Germany onto her feet again so that she can be punished in an orderly way, We shall have to feed her and admit her to com. merce so that she can pay her indemnities--we shall have to police her cities to prevent revolution from burning her up-and the upshot of it all will be that men will have fought the most terrible war in history, and endured nameless horrors, for the privilege of nursing their enemy back to health If that isn't an absurdity, what is? That's 126 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP what happens when a great nation like Germany goes insane. “Well, we're up against some terribly compli- cated problems. My only consolation is that I think the bookseller can play as useful a part as any man in rebuilding the world's sanity. When I was fretting over what I could do to help things along, I came across two lines in my favourite poet that encouraged me. Good old George Herbert says: “A grain of glory mixed with humblenesse Cures both a fever and lethargicknesse. “Certainly running a second-hand bookstore is a pretty humble calling, but I've mixed a grain of glory with it, in my own imagination at any rate. You see, books contain the thoughts and dreams of men, their hopes and strivings and all their immortal parts. It's in books that most of us learn how splendidly worth-while life is. I never realized the greatness of the human spirit, the indomitable grandeur of man's mind, until I read Milton's Areopagitica. To read that great out- burst of splendid anger ennobles the meanest of us simply because we belong to the same species of animal as Milton. Books are the immortality of the race, the father and mother of nost that is corth while cherishing in our hearts. To spread THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 127 good books about, to sow them on fertile minds, to propagate understanding and a carefulness of life and beauty, isn't that high enough mission for a man? The bookseller is the real Mr. Valiant- For-Truth, “Here's my War-alcove,” he went on. “I've stacked up here most of the really good books the War has brought out. If humanity has sense enough to take these books to heart, it will never get itself into this mess again. Printer's ink has been running a race against gunpowder these many, many years. Ink is handicapped, in a way, because you can blow up a man with gunpowder in half a second, while it may take twenty years to blow him up with a book. But the gunpowder destroys itself along with its victim, while a book can keep on exploding for centuries. There's Hardy's Dynasts for example. When you read that book you can feel it blowing up your mind. It leaves you gasping, ill, nauseated-oh, it's not pleasant to feel some really pure intellect filtered into one's brain! It hurts! There's enough T. N. T. in that book to blast war from the face of the globe. But there's a slow fuse attached to it. It hasn't really exploded yet. Maybe it won't for another fifty years. “In regard to the War, think what books have accomplished. What was the first thing all the 128 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP governments started to do-publish books! Blue Books, Yellow Books, White Books, Red Books- everything but Black Books, which would have been appropriate in Berlin. They knew that guns and troops were helpless unless they could get the books on their side, too. Books did as much as anything else to bring America into the war. Some German books helped to wipe the Kaiser off his throne-I Accuse, and Dr. Muehlon's magnificent outburst The Vandal of Europe, and Lichnowsky's private memorandum, that shook Germany to her foundations, simply because he told the wruth. Here's that book Men in War, written I believe by a Hungarian officer, with its noble dedication “To Friend and Foe.” Here are some of the French books-books in which the clear, passionate intellect of that race, with its savage irony, burns like a flame. Romain Rol- land's Au-Dessus de la Melee, written in exile in Switzerland; Barbusse's terrible Le Feu; Du- hamel's bitter Civilization; Bourget's strangely fascinating novel The Meaning of Death. And the noble books that have come out of England: A Student in Arms; The Tree of Heaven; Why Men Fight, by Bertrand Russell—I'm hoping he'll write one on Why Men Are Imprisoned: you know he was locked up for his sentiments! And here's one of the most moving of all—The Letters THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 129 of Arthur Heath, a gentle, sensitive young Oxford tutor who was killed on the Western front. You ought to read that book. It shows the entire lack of hatred on the part of the English. Heath and his friends, the night before they enlisted, sat up singing the German music they had loved, as a kind of farewell to the old, friendly joyous life. Yes, that's the kind of thing War does-wipes out spirits like Arthur Heath. Please read it. Then you'll have to read Philip Gibbs, and Lowes Dickinson and all the young poets. Of course you've read Wells already. Everybody has.” “How about the Americans?" said Titania. “Haven't they written anything about the war that's worth while?” "Here's one that I found a lot of meat in, streaked with philosophical gristle,” said Roger, relighting his pipe. He pulled out a copy of Professor Latimer's Progress. “There was one passage that I remember marking-let's see now, what was it?-Yes, here! "It is true that, if you made a poll of newspaper editors, you might find a great many who think that war is evil. But if you were to take a census among pastors of fashionable metro, politan churches” “That's a bullseye hit! The church has done in itself with most thinking men. 130 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP There's another good passage in Professor Latimer, where he points out the philosophical value of dishwashing. Some of Latimer's talk is so much in common with my ideas that I've been rather hoping he'd drop in here some day. I'd like to meet him. As for American poets, get wise to Edwin Robinson There is no knowing how long the bookseller's monologue might have continued, but at this moment Helen appeared from the kitchen. “Good gracious, Roger!” she exclaimed, “I've heard your voice piping away for I don't know how long. What are you doing, giving the poor child a Chautauqua lecture? You must want to frighten her out of the book business.” Roger looked a little sheepish. “My dea" he said, “I was only laying down a few of the principles underlying the art of bookselling- “It was very interesting, honestly it was, said Titania brightly. Mrs. Mifflin, in a blue check apron and with plump arms floury to the elbow, gave her a wink—or as neur a wink as a woman ever achieves (ask the man who owns one). “Whenever Mr. Mifflin feels very low in his mind about the business,” she said, “he falls back on those highly idealized sentiments. He knows that next to being a parson, he's got into the worst 132 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP "Did you ever notice how books track you dowu and hunt you out? They follow you like the hound in Francis Thompson's poem. They know their quarry! Look at that book The Education of Henry Adams! Just watch the way it's hound- ing out thinking people this winter. And The Four Horsemen—you can see it racing in the veins of the reading people. It's one of the uncanniest things I know to watch a real book on its career it follows you and follows you and drives you into a corner and makes you read it. There's a queer old book that's been chasing me for years: The Life and Opinions of John Buncle, Esq., it's called. I've tried to escape it, but every now and then it sticks up its head somewhere. It'll get me some day, and I'll be compelled to read it. Ten Thou- sand a Year trailed me the same way until I sur- rendered. Words can't describe the cunning of some books. You'll think you've shaken them off your trail, and then one day some innocent- looking customer will pop in and begin to talk, and you'll know he's an unconscious agent of book-destiny. There's an old sea-captain who drops in here now and then. He's simply the novels of Captain Marryat put into flesh. He has me under a kind of speil: I know I shall have to read Peter Simple before I die, just because the old fellow loves it so. That's why I call this place THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 133 the Haunted Bookshop. Haunted by the ghosts of the books I haven't read. Poor uneasy spirits, they walk and walk around me. There's only one way to lay the ghost of a book, and that is to read it.” “I know what you mean," said Titania. “I haven't read much Bernard Shaw, but I feel I shall have to. He meets me at every turn, bully- ing me. And I know lots of people who are simply terrorized by H. G. Wells. Every time one of his books comes out, and that's pretty often, they're in a perfect panic until they've read it." Roger chuckled. “Some have even been stand- peded into subscribing to the New Republic for that very purpose." “But speaking of the Haunted Bookshop, what's your special interest in that Oliver Crom- well book?" “Oh, I'm glad you mentioned it,” said Roger. “I must put it back in its place on the shelf.” He ran back to the den to get it, and just then the bell clanged at the door. A customer came in, and the one-sided gossip was over for the time being. CHAPTER VII AUBREY TAKES LODGINGS AM sensible that Mr. Aubrey Gilbert is by no means ideal as the leading juvenile of our piece. The time still demands some explana- tion why the leading juvenile wears no gold chevrons on his left sleeve. As a matter of fact, our young servant of the Grey-Matter Agency had been declined by a recruiting station and a draft board on account of flat feet; although I must protest that their flatness detracts not at all from his outward bearing nor from his physical capacity in the ordinary concerns of amiable youth. When the army “turned him down flat, as he put it, he had entered the service of the Committee on Public Information, and had carried on mysterious activities in their behalf for over a year, up to the time when the armistice was signed by the United Press. Owing to a small error of judgment on his part, now com- pletely forgotten, but due to the regrettable delay of the German envoys to synchronize with over- exuberant press correspondents, the last three 134 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 135 days of the war had been carried on without his active assistance. After the natural recuperation necessary on the 12th of November, he had been re-absorbed by the Grey-Matter Advertising Agency, with whom he had been connected for several years, and where his sound and vivacious qualities were highly esteemed. It was in the course of drumming up post-war business that he had swung so far out of his ordinary orbit as to call on Roger Mifflin. Perhaps these explanations should have been made earlier. At any rate, Aubrey woke that Saturday morn- ing, about the time Titania began to dust the pavement-boxes, in no very world-conquering humour. As it was a half-holiday, he felt no com- punction in staying away from the office. The landlady, a motherly soul, sent him up some coffee and scrambled eggs, and insisted on having a doctor in to look at his damage. Several stitches were taken, after which he had a nap. He woke up at noon, feeling better, though his head still ached abominably. Putting on a dressing gown, he sat down in his modest chamber, which was furnished chiefly with a pipe-rack, ash trays, and a set of O.Henry,and picked up one of his favourite volumes for a bit of solace. We have hinted that Mr. Gilbert was not what is called “literary.” llis reading was mostly of the newsstand sort, 136 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP and Printer's Ink, that naïve journal of the pub- licity professions. His favourite diversion was luncheon at the Advertising Club where he would pore, fascinated, over displays of advertising book- lets, posters, and pamphlets with such titles as Tell Your Story in Bold-Face. He was accustomed to remark that “the fellow who writes the Packard ads has Ralph Waldo Emerson skinned three ways from the Jack." Yet much must be for- given this young man for his love of 0. Henry. He knew, what many other happy souls have found, that O. Henry is one of those rare and gifted tellers of tales who can be read at all times. No matter how weary, how depressed, how shaken in morale, one can always find enjoyment in that master romancer of the Cabarabian Nights. “Don't talk to me of Dickens' Christmas Stories,” Aubrey said to himself, recalling his adventure in Brooklyn. “I'll bet 0. Henry's Gift of the Magi beats anything Dick ever laid pen to. What a shame he died without finishing that Christmas story in Rolling Stones! I wish some boss writer like Irvin Cobb or Edna Ferber would take a hand at finishing it. If I were an editor I'd hire someone to wind up that yarn. It's a crime to have a good story like that lying around half written.” He was sitting in a soft wreath of cigarette THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 137 smoke when his landlady came in with the morning paper. “Thought you might like to see the Times, Mr. Gilbert,” she said. “I knew you'd been too sick to go out and buy one. I see the President's going to sail on Wednesday.” Aubrey threaded his way through the news with the practiced eye of one who knows what interests him. Then, by force of habit, he carefully scan- ned the advertising pages. A notice in the HELP WANTED columns leaped out at him. WANTED—For temporary employment at Hotel Octagon, 3 chefs, 3 experienced cooks, 20 waiters. Apply chef's office, 11 p.m. Tuesday. "Hum,” he thought. “I suppose, to take the place of those fellows who are going to sail on the George Washington to cook for Mr. Wilson. That's a grand ad for the Octagon, having their kitchen staff chosen for the President's trip. Gee, I wonder why they don't play that up in some real space? Maybe I can place some copy for them along that line. An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he went over to the chair where he had thrown his over- coat the night before. From the pocket he took out the cover of Carlyle's Cromwell, and looked at it carefully. “I wonder what the jinx is on this book?” he -- 138 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP . thought. “It's a queer thing the way that fellow trailed me last night—then my finding this in the drug store, and getting that crack on the bean. I wonder if that neighbourhood is a safe place for a girl to work in?” He paced up and down the room, forgetting the pain in his head. “Maybe I ought to tip the police off about this business,” he thought. “It looks wrong to me. But I have a hankering to work the thing out on my own. I'd have a wonderful stand-in with old man Chapman if I saved that girl from anything. I've heard of gangs of kidnappers. No, I don't like the looks of things a little bit. I think that bookseller is half cracked, anyway. He doesn't believe in advertising! The idea of Chapman trusting his daughter in a place like that The thought of playing knight errant to some- thing more personal and romantic than an ad- vertising account was irresistible.' "I'll slip over to Brooklyn as soon as it gets dark this evening," he said to himself. “I ought to be able to get a room somewhere along that street, where I can watch that bookshop without being seen, and find out what's haunting it. I've got that old .22 popgun of mine that I used to use up at camp. I'll take it along. I'd like to know more about 140 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP Street. The block between Wordsworth Avenue and Hazlitt Street is peculiar in that on one side the side where the Haunted Bookshop stands- the old brownstone dwellings have mostly been replaced by small shops of a bright, lively char- acter. At the Wordsworth Avenue corner, where the L swings round in a lofty roaring curve, stands Weintraub's drug store; below it, on the western side, a succession of shining windows beacon through the evening. Delicatessen shops with their appetizing medley of cooked and pickled meats, dried fruits, cheeses, and bright coloured jars of preserves; small modistes with generously contoured wax busts of coiffured ladies; lunch rooms with the day's menu typed and pasted on the outer pane; a French rôtisserie where chickens turn hissing on the spits before a tall oven of rosy coals; florists, tobacconists, fruit-dealers, and a Greek candy-shop with a long soda fountain shir. ing with onyx marble and coloured glass lamps and nickel tanks of hot chocolate; a stationery shop, now stuffed for the holiday trade with Christmas cards, toys, calendars, and those queer little suède-bound volumes of Kipling, Service, Oscar Wilde, and Omar Khayyam that appear every year toward Christmas time-such modest and cheerful merchandising makes the western pavement of Gissing Street a jolly place when the 142 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP . of Genesis scene with an Eve in a sports suit. ADDED ATTRACTION, MR. AND MRS. SIDNEY DREW, he read. A little way down the block he saw a sign va- CANCIES in a parlour window. The house was nearly opposite the bookshop, and he at once mounted the tall steps to the front door and rang. A fawn-tinted coloured girl, of the kind gener- ally called “Addie,” arrived presently. “Can I get a room here?” he asked. “I don't know, you'd better see Miz' Schiller,” she said, without rancor. Adopting the customary compromise of untrained domestics, she did not invite him inside, but de- parted, leaving the door open to show that there was no ill will. Aubrey stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. In an immense mirror the pale cheese-coloured flutter of a gas jet was remotely reflected. He noticed the Landseer engraving hung against wallpaper designed in facsimile of large rectangles of gray stone, and the usual tele- phone memorandum, for the usual Mrs. J. F. Smith (who abides in all lodging houses) tucked into the frame of the mirror, Will Mrs. Smith please call Stockton 6771, it said. A carpeted stair with a fine old mahogany balustrade rose into the dimness. Aubrey, who was thoroughly famil- iar with lodgings, knew instinctively that the 144 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP Mrs. Schiller brightened the gas and led the way upstairs. Treasure skipped up the treads beside her. The sight of the six feet ascending together amused Aubrey. The fourth, ninth, tenth, and fourteenth steps creaked, as he had guessed they would. On the landing of the second storey a transom gushed orange light. Mrs. Schiller was secretly pleased at not having to augment the gas on that landing. Under the transom and behind a door Aubrey could hear someone having a bath, with a great sloshing of water. He wondered irrever- ently whether it was Mrs. J. F. Smith. At any rate (he felt sure), it was some experienced habitué of lodgings, who knew that about five thirty in the afternoon is the best time for a bath-before cook- ing supper and the homecoming ablutions of other tenants have exhausted the hot water boiler. They climbed one more flight. The room was small, occupying half the third-floor frontage. A large window opened onto the street, giving a plain view of the bookshop and the other houses across the way. A wash-stand stood modestly inside a large cupboard. Over the mantel was the familiar picture-usually, however, reserved for the fourth floor back-of a young lady having her shoes shined by a ribald small boy. Aubrey was delighted. “This is fine," he said. “Here's a week in advance." THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 145 Mrs. Schiller was almost disconcerted by the rapidity of the transaction. She preferred to solemnize the reception of a new lodger by a little more talk-remarks about the weather, the diffi- culty of getting "help,” the young women guests who empty tea-leaves down wash-basin pipes, and so on. All this sort of gossip, apparently aimless, has a very real purpose: it enables the defenceless landlady to size up the stranger who comes to prey upon her. She had hardly had a good look at this gentleman, nor even knew his name, and here he had paid a week's rent and was already installed. Aubrey divined the cause of her hesitation, and gave her his business card. “All right, Mr. Gilbert,” she said. “I'll send up the girl with some clean towels and a latchkey.** Aubrey sat down in a rocking chair by the win- dow, tucked the muslin curtain to one side, and looked out upon the bright channel of Gissing Street. He was full of the exhilaration that springs from any change of abode, but his romantic satisfaction in being so close to the adorable Ti- tania was somewhat marred by a sense of ab- surdity, which is feared by young men more than wounds and death. He could see the lighted win dows of the Haunted Bookshop quite plainly, but he could not think of any adequate excuse for 146 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP going over there. And already he realized that to be near Miss Chapman was not at all the consola- tion he had expected it would be. He had a power- ful desire to see her. He turned off the gas, lit his pipe, opened the window, and focussed the opera glasses on the door of the bookshop. It brought the place tantalizingly near. He could see the table at the front of the shop, Roger's bulletin board under the electric light, and one or two nondescript customers gleaning along the shelves. Then something bounded violently under the third button of his shirt. There she was! In the bright, prismatic little circle of the lenses he could see Titania. Heavenly creature, in her white V-necked blouse and brown skirt, there she was looking at a book. He saw her put out one arm and caught the twinkle of her wrist-watch. In the startling familiarity of the magnifying glass he could see her bright, unconscious face, the merry profile of her cheek and chin. “The idea of that girl working in a second-hand bookstore!” he exclaimed. “It's positive sacrilege! Old man Chapman must be crazy." He took out his pyjamas and threw them on the bed; put his toothbrush and razor on the wash- basin, laid hairbrushes and O. Henry on the bu- reau. Feeling rather serio-comic he loaded his small revolver and hipped it. It was six o'clock, 148 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP But the face of Miss Titania kept coming between his hand and brain. Of what avail to flood the world with the Chapman Chips if the girl herself should come to any harm? “Was this the face that launched a thousand chips?” he murmured, and for an instant wished he had brought The Oxford Book of English Verse instead of O. Henry A tap sounded at his door, and Mrs. Schiller appeared. “Telephone for you, Mr. Gilbert," she said. “For me?” said Aubrey in amazement. How could it be for him, he thought, for no one knew he was there. “The party on the wire asked to speak to the gentleman who arrived about half an hour ago, and I guess you must be the one he means.” “Did he say who he is?” asked Aubrey. “No, sir.” For a moment Aubrey thought of refusing to answer the call. Then it occurred to him that this would arouse Mrs. Schiller's suspicions. He ran down to the telephone, which stood under the stairs in the front hall. “Hello,” he said. "Is this the new guest?” said a voice-a deep, gargling kind of voice. “Yes,” said Aubrey. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 149 “Is this the gentleman that arrived half an hour ago with a handbag?” “Yes; who are you?” “I'm a friend,” said the voice; “I wish you well.” “How do you do, friend and wellwisher," said Aubrey genially. “I schust want to warn you that Gissing Street is not healthy for you,” said the voice. “Is that so?” said Aubrey sharply. “Who are you?” 9. “I am a friend,” buzzed the receiver. There was a harsh, bass note in the voice that made the diaphragm at Aubrey’sear vibrate tinnily. Aubrey grew angry. "Well, Herr Freund,” he said, "if you're the wellwisher I met on the Bridge last night, watch your step. I've got your number. There was a pause. Then the other repeated, ponderously, “I am a friend. Gissing Street is not healthy for you.” There was a click, and he had rung off. Aubrey was a good deal perplexed. He re- turned to his room, and sat in the dark by the win- dow, smoking a pipe and thinking, with his eyes on the bookshop. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that something sinister was afoot. He reviewed in memory the events of the past few days. 150 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP It was on Monday that a bookloving friend had first told him of the existence of the shop on Giss- ing Street. On Tuesday evening he had gone round to visit the place, and had stayed to supper with Mr. Mifflin. On Wednesday and Thursday he had been busy at the office, and the idea of an intensive Daintybit campaign in Brooklyn had occurred to him. On Friday he had dined with Mr. Chapman, and had run into a curious string of coincidences. He tabulated them : (1) The Lost ad in the Times on Friday morning. (2) The chef in the elevator carrying the book that was sup posed to be lost—he being the same man Aubrey bed seen in the bookshop on Tuesday evening. (3) Seeing the chef again on Gissing Street. (4) The return of the book to the bookshop. (5) Mifflin bad said that the book had been stolen from hins. Then why should it be either advertised or returned? (6) The rebinding of the book. (7) Finding the original cover of the book in Weintraub's drug store. (8) The affair on the Bridge. (9) The telephone message from “a friend”—a friend with an obviously Teutonic voice. He remembered the face of anger and fear dis- played by the Octagon chef when he had spoken to him in the elevator. Until this oddly menacing telephone message, he could have explained the í THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 151 attack on the Bridge as merely a haphazard foot- pad enterprise; but now he was forced to conclude that it was in some way connected with his visits to the bookshop. He felt, too, that in some un- known way Weintraub's drug store had something to do with it. Would he have been attacked if he had not taken the book cover from the drug store? He got the cover out of his bag and looked at it again. It was of plain blue cloth, with the title stamped in gold on the back, and at the bottom the lettering London: Chapman and Hall. From the width of the backstrap it was evident that the book had been a fat one. Inside the front cover the figure 60 was written in red pencil—this he took to be Roger Mifflin's price mark. Inside the back cover he found the follow- ing notations- vol. 3-166, 174, 210, 329, 349 329 ff. cf. W. W. These references were written in black ink, in a small, neat hand. Below them, in quite a different script and in pale violet ink, was written 153 (3) 1, 2 “I suppose these are page numbers,” Aubrey thought. “I think I'd better have a look at that book." 152 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP He put the cover in his pocket and went out for a bite of supper. “It's a puzzle with three sides to it,” he thought, as he descended the crepitant stairs, “The Bookshop, the Octagon, and Wein- traub's; but that book seems to be the clue to the whole business.” CHAPTER VIII AUBREY GOES TO THE MOVIES, AND WISHES HE KNEW MORE GERMAN FEW doors from the bookshop was a small lunchroom named after the great city of Milwaukee, one of those pleasant refec- tories where the diner buys his food at the counter and eats it sitting in a flat-armed chair. Aubrey got a bowl of soup, a cup of coffee, beef stew, and bran muffins, and took them to an empty seat by the window. He ate with one eye on the street. From his place in the corner he could command the strip of pavement in front of Mifflin's shop. Half- way through the stew he saw Roger come out onto the pavement and begin to remove the books from the boxes. After finishing his supper he lit one of his "mild but they satisfy” cigarettes and sat in the com. fortable warmth of a near-by radiator. A large black cat lay sprawled on the next chair. Up at the service counter there was a pleasant clank of stout crockery as occasional customers came in and ordered their victuals. Aubrey began to feel a 253 154 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP relaxation swim through his veins. Gissing Street was very bright and orderly in its Saturday even ing bustle. Certainly it was grotesque to imagine melodrama hanging about a second-hand book. shop in Brooklyn. The revolver felt absurdly lumpy and uncomfortable in his hip pocket. What a different aspect a little hot supper gives to affairs! The most resolute idealist or assassin had better write his poems or plan his atrocities before the evening meal. After the narcosis of that repast the spirit falls into a softer mood, cager only to be amused. Even Milton would hardly have had the inhuman fortitude to sit down to the manuscript of Paradise Lost right after supper. Aubrey began to wonder if his unpleasant suspicions had not been overdrawn. He thought how delightful it would be to stop in at the bookshop and ask Titania to go to the movies with him. Curious magic of thought! The idea was still sparkling in his mind when he saw Titania and Mrs. Mifflin emerge from the bookshop and pass briskly in front of the lunchroom. They were talking and laughing merrily: Titania's face, shin- ing with young vitality, seemed to him more “attention-compelling” than any ten-point Caslon type-arrangement he had ever seen. He admired the layout of her face from the standpoint of his 156 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP she added, rather enjoying the young man's preo? dicament. Titania shook hands cordially. Aubrey, search- ing the old-style italics with the desperate intensity of a proofreader, saw no evidence of chagrin at seeing him again so soon. “Why,” he said rather lamely, “I was coming to see you all. I-I wondered how you were getting along." Mrs. Mifflin had pity on him. “We've left Mr. Mifflin to look after the shop,” she said. “He's busy with some of his old crony customers. Why don't you come with us to the movies?” “Yes, do," said Titania. “It's Mr. and Mrs. Sidney Drew, you know how adorable they are!” No one needs to be told how quickly Aubrey assented. Pleasure coincided with duty in that the outer wing of the party placed him next to Titania. “Well, how do you like bookselling?” he asked. “Oh, it's the greatest fun!” she cried. “But it'll take me ever and ever so long to learn about all the books. People ask such questions! A woman came in this afternoon looking for a copy of Blasé Tales. How was I to know she wanted The Blazed Trail ?” “You'll get used to that,” said Mrs. Mifflin. 1 158 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP well in front, at one side. From this angle the flying pictures were strangely distorted, but Au- brey did not mind. “Isn't it lucky I got here when I did," whis- pered Titania. “Mr. Mifflin has just had a tele- phone call from Philadelphia asking him to go over on Monday to make an estimate on a library that's going to be sold so I'll be able to look after the shop for him while he's gone.” “Is that so?” said Aubrey. “Well, now, I've got to be in Brooklyn on Monday, on business. Maybe Mrs. Mifflin would let me come in and buy some books from you. “Customers always welcome,” said Mrs. Mifflin. “I've taken a fancy to that Cromwell book," said Aubrey. “What do you suppose Mr. Mifflin would sell it for?" "I think that book must be valuable,” said Titania. “Somebody came in this afternoon and wanted to buy it, but Mr. Mifflin wouldn't part with it. He says it's one of his favourites. Gra- cious, what a weird film this is!” The fantastic absurdities of Tarzan proceeded on the screen, tearing celluloid passions to tatters, but Aubrey found the strong man of the jungle coming almost too close to his own imperious in- stincts. Was not he, too—he thought naïvely—a poor Tarzan of the advertising jungle, lost among 160 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP and the ever-delightful Mr. and Mrs. Drew ap- peared on the screen in one of their domestic comedies. Lovers of the movies may well date a new screen era from the day those whimsical pan- tomimers set their wholesome and humane talent at the service of the arc light and the lens. Au- brey felt a serene and intimate pleasure in watch- ing them from a seat beside Titania. He knew that the breakfast table scene shadowed before them was only a makeshift section of lath propped up in some barnlike motion picture studio; yet his rocketing fancy imagined it as some arcadian suburb where he and Titania, by a jugglery of benign fate, were bungalowed together. Young men have a pioneering imagination: it is doubtful whether any young Orlando ever found himself side by side with Rosalind without dreaming him- self wedded to her. If men die a thousand deaths before this mortal coil is shuffled, even so surely do youths contract a thousand marriages before they go to the City Hall for a license. Aubrey remembered the opera glasses, which were still in his pocket, and brought them out. The trio amused themselves by watching Sidney Drew's face through the magnifying lenses. They were disappointed in the result, however, as the pictures, when so enlarged, revealed all the cob- web of fine cracks on the film. Mr. Drew's nose. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 161 the most amusing feature known to the movies, lost its quaintness when so augmented. “Why,” cried Titania, "it makes his lovely nose look like the map of Florida.” “How on earth did you happen to have these in your pocket?” asked Mrs. Mifflin, returning the glasses. Aubrey was hard pressed for a prompt and rea- sonable fib, but advertising men are resourceful. “ “Oh,” he said, “I sometimes carry them with me at night to study the advertising sky-sigrs. I'm a little short sighted. You see, it's part of my busi- ness to study the technique of the electric signs.” After some current event pictures the pro- gramme prepared to repeat itself, and they went out. “Will you come in and have some cocoa with us?” said Helen as they reached the door of the bookshop. Aubrey was eager enough to accept, but feared to overplay his hand. “I'm sorry," he said, “but I think I'd better not. I've got some work to do to-night. Perhaps I can drop in on Monday when Mr. Mifflin's away, and put coal on the furnace for you, or something of that sort?” Mrs. Mifflin laughed. “Surely!” she said. “You're welcome any time." The door closed behind them, and Aubrey fell into a profound melancholy. Deprived of the heavenly rhetoric of her eye, Gissing Street seemed flat and dull. 162 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP It was still early--not quite ten o'clock-and it occurred to Aubrey that if he was going to patrol the neighbourhood he had better fix its details in his head. Hazlitt, the next street below the book- shop, proved to be a quiet little byway, cheerfully lit with modest dwellings. A few paces down Hazlitt Street a narrow cobbled alley ran through to Wordsworth Avenue, passing between the back yards of Gissing Street and Whittier Street. The alley was totally dark, but by counting off the correct number of houses Aubrey identified the rear entrance of the bookshop. He tried the yard gate cautiously, and found it unlocked. Glancing in he could see a light in the kitchen win- dow and assumed that the cocoa was being brewed. Then a window glowed upstairs, and he was thrilled to see Titiania shining in the lamplight. She moved to the window and pulled down the blind. For a moment he saw her head and shoulders silhouetted against the curtain; then the light went out. Aubrey stood briefly in sentimental thought. If he only had a couple of blankets, he mused, he could camp out here in Roger's back yard all night. Surely no harm could come to the girl while he kept watch beneath her casement! The idea was just fantastic enough to appeal to him. Then, as be stood in the open gateway, he heard distant THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 footfalls coming down the alley, and a grumble oi voices. Perhaps two policemen on their rounds, he thought: it would be awkward to be surprised skulking about back doors at this time of night. He slipped inside the gate and closed it gently behind him, taking the precaution to slip the bolt. The footsteps came nearer, stumbling down the uneven cobbles in the darkness. He stood still against the back fence. To his amazement the men halted outside Mifflin's gate, and he heard the latch quietly lifted. “It's no use," said a voice “the gate is locked. We must find some other way, my friend.” Aubrey tingled to hear the rolling, throaty "r" in the last word. There was no mistaking—this was the voice of his "friend and wellwisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in col- lege, Aubrey caught only two words—Thür and Schlüssel, which he knew meant door and key. “Very well,” said the first voice. “That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity- Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 165 girders and trestles of thé “L” station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whit- tier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Haz- litt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two work- men were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the façade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced 166 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP at the window of his own chamber, where the cur- tain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the win- dow. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and wellwisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good for- tune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked “Have you any wire?” The florist produced a spool of the slender, THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 167 tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossom- ing too quickly. * Let me have about eight feet,” said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed.” With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the wellwisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a iong time, in some nervousness lest 168 TAE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown- perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith-who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He re- laid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feel- ing his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swear- ing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out- spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. “Burnt hair is a grand restora- tive," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 169 of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed cor- rect. ' Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen down- stairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith-cried out “What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, “They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to.” “Yes, Hun's feathers,” chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. CHAPTER LX AGAIN THE NARRATIVE IS RETARDED R OGER had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) “Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading Univers sity,” and it presented so many alluring possibili- ties that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of press entation 170 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 171 A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is 80 representative a member Then he could see the modest bookseller, some- what clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning co the ex- pectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the dis- tinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you—why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, 172 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP artists, and authors, but no statues to book- sellers?” Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day found- ing a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are un- known. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travel- ling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 178 a These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of sev- eral engaging books on the joys of country live ing, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've writ. ten no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit 174 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP of humanity. I wish there could be an inter- national peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world “that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder.” What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem-old George Herbert's Church Porch—where he says By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness chese days! The sudden and amazing turn-over in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 175 lear is that humanity will forget the atrocious suf- ferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books—it lies beside me as I write Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at “elucidating" any. thing!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And 1 have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658 -“If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness. What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthought- ful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. 176 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP > In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed some- where among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most iamiliar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wɔuldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 177 hem in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming-I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosi- ties of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day- I marked the passage for you- Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like—describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth-or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut 178 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP up shop, I am constantly interrupted-as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days ? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when, we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch. the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, “Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!” And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 179 . your pocket. I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by books? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how inter- esting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young English- man who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form and wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 181 when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, “He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicabl THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 183 You see, books are the answer to all our per- plexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a “law of acceleration,” which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumph- antly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his help- lessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be “Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!” Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, “How uncomprehend- ingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face.” Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she 184 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP has gone out to the movies with a young protégée of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice book- seller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chap- man's Daintybits which you see advertised every- where. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collec- tion that is to be sold. I was rather flattered be- cause I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. CHAPTER X ROGER RAIDS THE ICE-BOX R OGER had just put Carlyle's CromweŰ back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing un- der his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. “I do think Bock has the darlingest manners, said Titania. “Yes,” said Helen, “it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." “Well,” said Roger, “did you have a good time?” "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitués of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and 185 186 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chap- man took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. “We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, “and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the fur- nace while you're away.” “Well,” said Roger, “these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising ac- count." “Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. “I spent most of the time writing to Andrew,' said Roger. “One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." “No!” cried Helen. “A fact,” said Roger. “A man was looking at it, and I told him it was supposed to be written by Colonel House. He insisted on buying it. But what a sell when he tries to read it!” “Did Colonel House really write it?” asked Titania. “I don't know," said Roger. “I hope not, because I find in myself a secret tendency to be THE HAUNTED BOOKSAOP 187 99 lieve that Mr. House is an able man. If he did write it, I devoutly hope none of the foreign states- men in Paris will learn of that fact." While Helen and Titania took off their wraps, Roger was busy closing up the shop. He went down to the corner with Bock to mail his letter, and when he returned to the den Helen had pre- pared a large jug of cocoa. They sat down by the fire to enjoy it. “Chesterton has written a very savage poem against cocoa,” said Roger, “which you will find in The Flying Inn; but for my part I find it the ideal evening drink. It lets the mind down gently, and paves the way for slumber. I have often noticed {hat the most terrific philosophical agonies can be allayed by three cups of Mrs. Mifflin's cocoa. A man can safely read Schopenhauer all even- ing if he has a tablespoonful of cocoa and a tin of condensed milk available. Of course it should be made with condensed milk, which is the only way.” “I had no idea anything could be so good,” said Titania. “Of course, Daddy makes condensed milk in one of his factories, but I never dreamed of trying it. I thought it was only used by explorers, people at the North Pole, you know.” “How stupid of me!” exclaimed Roger. quite forgot to tell you! Your father called up just “I 188 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP after you had gone out this evening, and wanted to know how you were getting on.” “Oh, dear,” said Titania. “He must have been delighted to hear I was at the movies, on the second day of my first job! He probably said it was just like me.” “I explained that I had insisted on your going with Mrs. Mifflin, because I felt she needed the change." “I do hope," said Titania, "you won't let Daddy poison your mind about me. He thinks I'm dread- fully frivolous, just because I look frivolous. But I'm so keen to make good in this job. I've been practicing doing up parcels all afternoon, so as to learn how to tie the string nicely and not cut it until after the knot's tied. I found that when you cut it beforehand either you get it too short and it won't go round, or else too long and you waste some. Also I've learned how to make wrapping paper cuffs to keep my sleeves clean.” “Well, I haven't finished yet,” continued Roger. “Your father wants us all to spend to-morrow out at your home. He wants to show us some books he has just bought, and besides he thinks maybe you're feeling homesick.” “What, with all these lovely books to read? Nonsense! I don't want to go home for six months!” THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 189 “He wouldn't take No for an answer. He's going to send Edwards round with the car the first thing to-morrow morning.” “What fun!” said Helen. “It'll be delightful." “Goodness," said Titania. “Imagine leaving this adorable bookshop to spend Sunday in Larch- mont. Well, I'll be able to get that georgette blouse I forgot.” “What time will the car be here?” asked Helen. “Mr. Chapman said about nine o'clock. He begs us to get out there as early as possible, as he wants to spend the day showing us his books.” As they sat round the fading bed of coals, Roger began hunting along his private shelves. “Have you ever read any Gissing?” he said. Titania made a pathetic gesture to Mrs. Mifflin. “It's awfully embarrassing to be asked these things! No, I never heard of him.” “Well, as the street we live on is named after him, I think you ought to,” he said. He pulled down his copy of The House of Cobwebs. "I'm going to read you one of the most delightful short stories I know. It's called 'A Charming Family.” “No, Roger,” said Mrs. Mifflin firmly. “Not to-night. It's eleven o'clock, and I can Titania's tired. Even Bock has left us and gone in to his kennel. He's got more sense than you have." >> see 190 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP “All right,” said the bookseller amiably. “Miss Chapman, you take the book up with you and read it in bed if you want to. Are you a librocubicularist?" Titania looked a little scandalized. “It's all right, my dear,” said Helen. “He only means are you fond of reading in bed. I've been waiting to hear him work that word into the con- versation. He made it up, and he's immensely proud of it.” “Reading in bed?” said Titania. “What a quaint idea! Does any one do it? It never oc- curred to me. I'm sure when I go to bed I'm far too sleepy to think of such a thing.' “Run along then, both of you,” said Roger. “Get your beauty sleep. I shan't be very late.” He meant it when he said it, but returning to his desk at the back of the shop his eye fell upon his private shelf of books which he kept there “to rectify perturbations” as Burton puts it. On this shelf there stood Pilgrim's Progress, Shakespeare, The Anatomy of Melancholy, The Home Book of Verse, George Herbert's Poems, The Notebooks of Samuel Butler, and Leaves of Grass. He took down The Anatomy of Melancholy, that most delightful of all books for midnight browsing. Turning to one of his favourite passages—“A Consolatory Digression, Containing the Remedies of All Man THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 191 ner of Discontents”—he was happily lost to all ticking of the clock, retaining only such bodily consciousness as was needful to dump, fill, and relight his pipe from time to time. Solitude is a dear jewel for men whose days are spent in the tedious this-and-that of trade. Roger was a glutton for his midnight musings. To such tried companions as Robert Burton and George Herbert he was wont to exonerate his spirit. It used to amuse him to think of Burton, the lonely Oxford scholar, writing that vast book to "rectify” his own:melancholy. By and by, turning over the musty old pages, he, came to the following, on Sleep The fittest time is two or three hours after supper, whenas the meat is now settled at the bottom of the stomach, and ’tis good to lie on the right side first, because at that site the liver doth rest under the stomach, not molesting any way, but heating him as a fire doth a kettle, that is put to it. After the first sleep 'tis not amiss to lie on the left side, that the meat may the better descend, and sometimes again on the belly, but never on the back. Seven or eight hours is a competent time for a melancholy man to sest In that case, thought Roger, it's time for me to be turning in. He looked at his watch, and found it was half-past twelve. He switched off his light and went back to the kitchen quarters to tend the furnace. 192 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP I hesitate to touch upon a topic of domestic bitterness, but candor compels me to say that Roger's evening vigils invariably ended at the ice- box. There are two theories as to this subject of ice-box plundering, one of the husband and the other of the wife. Husbands are prone to think (in their simplicity) that if they take a little of everything palatable they find in the refrigerator, by thus distributing their forage over the viands the general effect of the depradation will be almost unnoticeable. Whereas wives say (and Mrs. Mifflin had often explained to Roger) that it is far better to take all of any one dish than a little of each; for the latter course is likely to diminish each item below the bulk at which it is still useful as a left-over. Roger, however, had the obstinate viciousness of all good husbands, and he knew the delights of cold provender by heart. Many a stewed prune, many a mess of string beans or naked cold boiled potato, many a chicken leg, half apple pie, or sector of rice pudding, had perished in these midnight festivals. He made it a point of honour never to eat quite all of the dish in question, but would pass with unabated zest from one to another. This habit he had sternly re- pressed during the war, but Mrs. Mifflin had no- ticed that since the armistice he had resumed it with hearty violence. This is a custom which THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 195 iron-grated windows opened onto the sunken area by the front door of the shop. He gave a low growl, and seemed uneasy. “What is it, Bock?” said Roger placidly, finish- ing his pipe. Bock gave a short, sharp bark, with a curious note of protest in it. But Roger's mind was still with Burton. “Rats?” he said. “Aye, very likely! This is Ratisbon, old man, but don't bark about it. Inci- dent of the French Camp: 'Smiling, the rat fell dead."" Bock paid no heed to this persiflage, but prowled the front end of the cellar, looking upward in curi- ous agitation. He growled again, softly. “Shhh,” said Roger gently. “Never mind the rats, Bock. Come on, we'll stoke up the fire and go to bed. Lord, it's one o'clock." CHAPTER XI TITANÍA TRIES READING IN BED A UBREY, sitting at his window with the opera glasses, soon realized that he was blind weary. Even the exalted heroics of romance are not proof against fatigue, most potent enemy of all who do and dream. He had had a long day, coming after the skull-smiting of the night before; it was only the frosty air at the lifted sash that kept him at all awake. He had fallen into a half drowse when he heard footsteps coming down the opposite side of the street. He had forced himself awake several times before, to watch the passage of some harmless strollers through the innocent blackness of the Brooklyn night, but this time it was what he sought. The man stepped stealthily, with a cer- tain blend of wariness and assurance. He halted under the lamp by the bookshop door, and the glasses gave him enlarged to Aubrey's eye. It was Weintraub, the druggist. The front of the bookshop was now entirely dark save for a curious little glimmer down below 196 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 197 the pavement level. This puzzled Aubrey, but he focussed his glasses on the door of the shop. He saw Weintraub pull a key out of his pocket, insert it very carefully in the lock, and open the door stealthily. Leaving the door ajar behind him, the druggist slipped into the shop. “What devil's business is this?” thought Aubrey angrily. “The swine has even got a key of his own. There's no doubt about it. He and Mifflin are working together on this job.” For a moment he was uncertain what to do. Should he run downstairs and across the street? Then, as he hesitated, he saw a pale beam of light over in the front left-hand corner of the shop. Through the glasses he could see the yellow circle of a flashlight splotched upon dim shelves of books. He saw Weintraub pull a volume out of the case, and the light vanished. Another instant and the man reappeared in the doorway, closed the door behind him with a gesture of careful silence, and was off up the street quietly and swiftly. It was all over in a minute. Two yellow oblongs shone for a minute or two down in the area under- neath the door. Through the glasses he now made out these patches as the cellar windows. Then they disappeared also, and all was placid gloom. In the quivering light of the street lamps he could 198 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP see the bookseller's sign gleaming whitely, with its lettering THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED. Aubrey sat back in his chair. “Well," he said to himself, “that guy certainly gave his shop the right name. This is by me. I do believe it's only some book-stealing game after all. I wonder if he and Weintraub go in for some first-edition faking, or some such stunt as that? I'd give a lot to know what it's all about." He stayed by the window on the qui vive, but no sound broke the stillness of Gissing Street. In the distance he could hear the occasional rumble of the Elevated trains rasping round the curve on Wordsworth Avenue. He wondered whether he ought to go over and break into the shop to see if all was well. But, like every healthy young man, he had a horror of appearing absurd. Little by little weariness numbed his apprehensions. Two o'clock clanged and echoed from distant steeples He threw off his clothes and crawled into bed. It was ten o'clock on Sunday morning when he awoke. A broad swath of sunlight cut the room in half: the white muslin curtain at the window rippled outward like a flag. Aubrey exclaimed when he saw his watch. He had a sudden feeling of having been false to his trust. What had been tappening across the way? THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 199 He gazed out at the bookshop. Gissing Street was bright and demure in the crisp quietness of the forenoon. Mifflin's house showed no sign of life. It was as he had last seen it, save that broad green shades had been drawn down inside the big front windows, making it impossible to look through into the book-filled alcoves. Aubrey put on his overcoat in lieu of a dressing gown, and went in search of a bathtub. He found the bathroom on his floor locked, with sounds of leisurely splashing within. “Damn Mrs. J. F. Smith,” he said. He was about to descend to the storey below, bashfully conscious of bare feet and pyjamaed shins, but looking over the banisters he saw Mrs. Schiller and the treasure-dog engaged in some household mancuvres. The pug caught sight of his pyjama legs and began to yap. Aubrey retreated in the irritation of a man baulked of a cold tub. He shaved and dressed rapidly. On his way downstairs he met Mrs. Schiller. He thought that her gaze was disapproving. “A gentleman called to see you last night, sir,” she said. "He said he was very sorry to miss you." “I was rather late in getting in, in getting in,” said Aubrey. “Did he leave his name?" “No, he said he'd see you some other time. He 200 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP woke the whole house up by falling downstairs, she added sourly. He left the lodging house swiftly, fearing to be seen from the bookshop. He was very eager to learn if everything was all right, but he did not want the Mifflins to know he was lodging just op- posite. Hastening diagonally across the street, he found that the Milwaukee Lunch, where he had eaten the night before, was open. He went in and had breakfast, rejoicing in grapefruit, ham and eggs, coffee, and doughnuts. He lit a pipe and sat by the window wondering what to do next. “It's damned perplexing,” he said to himself. “I stand to lose either way. If I don't do anything, something may happen to the girl; if I butt in too soon I'll get in dutch with her. I wish I knew what Weintraub and that chef are up to.” The lunchroom was practically empty, and in two chairs near him the proprietor and his as- sistant were sitting talking. Aubrey was sud- denly struck by what they said. “Say, this here, now, bookseller guy must have struck it rich.” “Who, Mifflin?" "Yeh; did ya see that car in front of his place this morning?” “No." "Believe me, some boat." THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 201 99 "Musta hired it, hey? Where'd he go at?” "I didn't see. I just saw the bus standing front the door.” “Say, did you see that swell dame he's got clerk ing for him?" “I sure did. What's he doing, taking her joy- riding?” “Shouldn't wonder. I wouldn't blame him- Aubrey gave no sign of having heard, but got up and left the lunchroom. Had the girl been kid- napped while he overslept? He burned with shame to think what a pitiful failure his knight- errantry had been. His first idea was to beard Weintraub and coinpel him to explain his connec- tion with the bookshop. His next thought was to call up Mr. Chapman and warn him of what had been going on. Then he decided it would be futile to do either of these before he really knew what had happened. He determined to get into the bookshop itself, and burst open its sinister secret. He walked hurriedly round to the rear alley, and surveyed the domestic apartments of the shop. Two windows in the second storey stood slightly open, but he could discern no signs of life. The back gate was still unlocked, and he walked boldly into the yard. The little enclosure was serene in the pale winter 202 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP sunlight. Along one fence ran a line of bushes and perennials, their roots wrapped in straw. The grass plot was lumpy, the sod withered to a tawny yellow and granulated with a sprinkle of frost, Below the kitchen door-which stood at the head of a flight of steps—was a little grape arbour with a rustic bench where Roger used to smoke his pipe on summer evenings. At the back of this arbour was the cellar door. Aubrey tried it, and found it locked. He was in no mood to stick at trifles. He was determined to unriddle the mystery of the book. shop. At the right of the door was a low window, level with the brick pavement. Through the dusty pane he could see it was fastened only by a hook on the inside. He thrust his heel through the pane. As the glass tinkled onto the cellar floor he heard a low growl. He unhooked the catch, lifted the frame of the broken window, and looked in. There was Bock, with head quizzically tilted, uttering a rumbling guttural vibration that seemed to proceed automatically from his interior. Aubrey was a little dashed, but he said cheerily “Hullo, Bock! Good old man! Well, well, nice old fellow!” To his surprise, Bock recognized him as a friend and wagged his tail slightly, but still continued to growl THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 203' “I wish dogs weren't such sticklers for form," thought Aubrey. “Now if I went in by the front door, Bock wouldn't say anything. It's just be- cause he sees me coming in this way that he's an- noyed. Well, I'll have to take a chance." He thrust his legs in through the window, care- fully holding up the sash with its jagged triangles of glass. It will never be known how severely Bock was tempted by the extremities thus exposed to him, but he was an old dog and his martial 'instincts had been undermined by years of kind. iness. Moreover, he remembered Aubrey perfectly well, and the smell of his trousers did not seem at jall hostile. So he contented himself with a small grumbling of protest. He was an Irish terrier, but there was nothing Sinn Fein about him. Aubrey dropped to the floor, and patted the dog, thanking his good fortune. He glanced about the cellar as though expecting to find some lurking horror. Nothing more appalling than several cases of beer bottles met his eyes. He started quietly to go up the cellar stairs, and Bock, evi, dently consumed with legitimate curiosity, kept at his heels. “Look here,” thought Aubrey. “I don't want the dog following me all through the house. If I touch anything he'll probably take a hunk out of my shin," 204 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 99 He unlocked the door into the yard, and Bock obeying the Irish terrier's natural impulse to get into the open air, ran outside. Aubrey quickly closed the door again. Bock's face appeared at the broken window, looking in with so quaint an expression of indignant surprise that Aubrey almost laughed. “There, old man," he said, “it's all right. I'm just going to look around a bit.” He ascended the stairs on tiptoe and found him. self in the kitchen. All was quiet. An alarm clock ticked with a stumbling, headlong hurry, Pots of geraniums stood on the window sill. The range, with its lids off and the fire carefully nour- ished, radiated a mild warmth. Through a dark little pantry he entered the dining room. sign of anything amiss. A pot of white heather stood on the table, and a corncob pipe lay on the sideboard. “This is the most innocent-looking kidnapper's den I ever heard of,” he thought. “Any moving-picture director would be ashamed not to provide a better stage-set." At that instant he heard footsteps overhead. Curiously soft, muffled footsteps. Instantly he was on the alert. Now he would know the worst. A window upstairs was thrown open. “Bock, what are you doing in the yard?” floated a voice. a very clear, imperious voice that somehow made Still no THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 205 him think of the thin ringing of a fine glass tumbler, It was Titania. He stood aghast. Then he heard a door open, and steps on the stair. Merciful heaven, the girl must not find him here. What would she think? He skipped back into the pantry, and shrank into a corner. He heard the footfalls reach the bot- tom of the stairs. There was a door into the kitchen from the central hall: it was not necessary for her to pass through the pantry, he thought He heard her enter the kitchen. In his anxiety he crouched down beneath the sink, and his foot, bent beneath him, touched : large tin tray leaning against the wall. It fel over with a terrible clang. “Bock!” said Titania sharply, “what are you doing?” Aubrey was wondering miserably whether he ought to counterfeit a bark, but it was too late to do anything. The pantry door opened, and Ti- tania looked in. They gazed at each other for several seconds in mutual horror. Even in his abasement, crouch- ing under a shelf in the corner, Aubrey's stricken senses told him that he had never seen so fair a spectacle. Titania wore a blue kimono and a curious fragile lacy bonnet which he did not understand. Her dark, gold-spangled hair came 206 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP down in two thick braids across her shoulders, Her blue eyes were very much alive with amaze- ment and alarm which rapidly changed into anger. “Mr. Gilbert!” she cried. For an instant he thought she was going to laugh. Then a new ex- pression came into her face. Without another word she turned and fled. He heard her run up- stairs. A door banged, and was locked. A win- dow was hastily closed. Again all was silent. Stupefied with chagrin, he rose from his cramped position. What on earth was he to do? How could he explain? He stood by the pantry sink in painful indecision. Should he slink out of the house? No, he couldn't do that without attempting to explain. And he was still con- vinced that some strange peril hung about this place. He must put Titania on her guard, no mat- ter how embarrassing it proved. If only she hadn't been wearing a kimono-how much easier it would have been. He stepped out into the hall, and stood at the bottom of the stairs in the throes of doubt. After waiting some time in silence he cleared the huski- ness from his throat and called out: “Miss Chapman!” There was no answer, but he heard light, rapid movements above. “Miss Chapman!” he called again. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 207 He heard the door opened, and clear words edged with frost came downward. This time he thought of a thin tumbler with ice in it. “Mr. Gilbert!” “Yes?” he said miserably. “Will you please call me a taxi?” Something in the calm, mandatory tone nettled him. After all, he had acted in pure good faith. “With pleasure,” he said, “but not until I have told you something. It's very important. I beg your pardon most awfully for frightening you, but it's really very urgent.” There was a brief silence. Then she said: “Brooklyn's a queer place. Wait a few min. utes, please.” Aubrey stood absently fingering the pattern on the wallpaper. He suddenly experienced a great craving for a pipe, but felt that the etiquette of the situation hardly permitted him to smoke. In a few moments Titania appeared at the head of the stairs in her customary garb. She sat down on the landing. Aubrey felt that everything was as bad as it could possibly be. If he could have seen her face his embarrassment would at least have had some compensation. But the light from a stair window shone behind her, and her features were in shadow. She sat clasping her hands round her knees. The light fell crosswise down the staire 208 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP way, and he could see only a gleam of brightness upon her ankle. His mind unconsciously followed its beaten paths. “What a corking pose for a silk stocking ad!” he thought. “Wouldn't it make a stunning full-page layout. I must suggest it to the Ankleshimmer people.” “Well?” she said. Then she could not refrain from laughter, he looked so hapless. She burst into an engaging trill. “Why don't you light your pipe?” she said. “You look as doleful as the Kaiser." “Miss Chapman,” he said, “I'm afraid you think I don't know what you must think. But I broke in here this morning because I—well, I don't think this is a safe place for you to be.” “So it seems. That's why I asked you to get me a taxi.' “There's something queer going on round this shop. It's not right for you to be here alone this way. I was afraid something had happened to you. Of course, I didn't know you were- were Faint almond blossoms grew in her cheeks. "I was reading,” she said. “Mr. Mifflin talks so much about reading in bed, I thought I'd try it. They wanted me to go with them to-day but I wouldn't. You see, if I'm going to be a booke eller I've got to catch up with some of this litera. - THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 209 sure that's been accumulating. After they left I -I-well, I wanted to see if this reading in bed is what it's cracked up to be." “Where has Mifflin gone?” asked Aubrey. “What business has he got to leave you here all alone?” “I had Bock," said Titania. “Gracious, Brooklyn on Sunday morning doesn't seem very perilous to me. If you must know, he and Mrs. Mifflin have gone over to spend the day with father. · I was to have gone, too, but I wouldn't What business is it of yours? You're as bad as Morris Finsbury in The Wrong Box. That's what I was reading when I heard the dog barking.” Aubrey began to grow nettled. “You seem to think this was a mere impertinence on my part, he said. "Let me tell you a thing or two.” And he briefly described to her the course of his ex- periences since leaving the shop on Friday even- ing, but omitting the fact that he was lodging just across the street. “There's something mighty unpalatable going on,” he said. “At first I thought Mifflin was the goat. I thought it might be some frame-up for swiping valuable books from his shop. But when I saw Weintraub come in here with his own latch, key, I got wise. He and Mifflin are in cahoots, that's what. I don't know what they're pulling 210 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP off, but I don't like the looks of it. You say Mifflin has gone out to see your father? I bet that's just camouflage, to stall you. I've got a great mind to ring Mr. Chapman up and tell him he ought to get you out of here." “I won't hear a word said against Mr. Mifflin," said Titania angrily. “He's one of my father's oldest friends. What would Mr. Mifflin say if he knew you had been breaking into his house and frightening me half to death? I'm sorry you got that knock on the head, because it seems that's your weak spot. I'm quite able to take care of myself, thank you. This isn't a movie.' “Well, how do you explain the actions of this man Weintraub?” said Aubrey. “Do you like to have a man popping in and out of the shop at all hours of the night, stealing books?” “I don't have to explain it at all,” said Titania. “I think it's up to you to do the explaining. Weintraub is a harmless old thing and he keeps delicious chocolates that cost only half as much as what you get on Fifth Avenue. Mr. Mifflin told me that he's a very good customer. Perhaps his business won't let him read in the daytime, and he comes in here late at night to borrow books. He probably reads in bed.” “I don't think anybody who talks German round back alleys at night is a harmless old thing 212 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP “Probably Mr. Mifflin has it somewhere around,” said Titania. “It was there last night.” “Probably nothing,” said Aubrey. “I tell you, Weintraub came in and took it. I saw him. Look here, if you really want to know what I think, I'll tell you. The war's not over by a long sight. Weintraub's a German. Carlyle was pro- German—I remember that much from college. I believe your friend Mifflin is pro-German, too I've heard some of his talk!” Titania faced him with cheeks aflame. “That'll do for you!” she cried. “Next thing I suppose you'll say Daddy's pro-German, and me, too! I'd like to see you say that to Mrs Mifflin himself.” "I will, don't worry,” said Aubrey grimly. He knew now that he had put himself hopelessly in the wrong in Titania's mind, but he refused to abate his own convictions. With sinking heart he saw her face relieved against the shelves of faded bindings. Her eyes shone with a deep and sultry blue, her chin quivered with anger. “Look here,” she said furiously. “Either you or I must leave this place. If you intend to stay, please call me a taxi.” Aubrey was as angry as she was. "I'm going,” he said. “But you've got to play fair with me. I tell you on my oath, these THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 213 two men, Mifflin and Weintraub, are framing something up. I'm going to get the goods on them and show you. But you mustn't put them wise that I'm on their track. If you do, of course, they'll call it off. I don't care what you think of me. You've got to promise me that.” “I won't promise you anything,” she said, “except never to speak to you again. I never saw a man like you before and I've seen a good many. “I won't leave here until you promise me not to warn them,” he retorted. “What I told you, I said in confidence. They've already found out where I'm lodging. Do you think this is a joke? They- 've tried to put me out of the way twice. If you breathe a word of this to Mifflin he'll warn the other two.” “You're afraid to have Mr. Mifflin know you broke into his shop,” she taunted. “You can think what you like.” “I won't promise you anything!” she burst out. Then her face altered. The defiant little line of her mouth bent and her strength seemed to run out at each end of that pathetic curve. “Yes, I will,” she said. “I suppose that's fair. I couldn't tell Mr. Mifflin, anyway. I'd be ashamed to tell him how you frightened me. I think you're hateful. I came over here thinking I was going CHAPTER XII AUBREY DETERMINES TO GIVE SERVICE THAT'S DIFFERENT S ELDOM has a young man speuc a more desolate afternoon than Aubrey on that Sunday. His only consolation was that twenty minutes after he had left the bookshop he saw a taxi drive up (he was then sitting gloomily at his bedroom window) and Titania enter it and drive away. He supposed that she had gone to join the party in Larchmont, and was glad to know that she was out of what he now called the war zone. For the first time on record, O. Henry failed to solace him. His pipe tasted bitter and brackish. He was eager to know what Wein- traub was doing, but did not dare make any investigations in broad daylight. His idea was to wait until dark. Observing the Sabbath calm of the streets, and the pageant of baby carriages wheeling toward Thackeray Boulevard, he won- dered again whether he had thrown away this girl's friendship for a merely imaginary suspicion, At last he could endure his cramped bedroom no 215 216 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP longer. Downstairs someone was dolefully play- ing a flute, most horrible of all tortures to tightened nerves. While her lodgers were at church the tireless Mrs. Schiller was doing a little house- cleaning: he could hear the monotonous rasp of a carpet-sweeper passing back and forth in an ad- joining room. He creaked irritably downstairs, and heard the usual splashing behind the bathroom door. In the frame of the hall mirror he saw a pencilled note: Will Mrs. Smith please call Tarkington 1565, it said. Unreasonably annoyed, he tore a piece of paper out of his notebook and wrote on it Will Mrs. Smith please call Bath 4200. Mounting to the second floor he tapped on the bathroom door. “Don't come in!” cried an agitated female voice. He thrust the memoran- dum under the door, and left the house. Walking the windy paths of Prospect Park he condemned himself to relentless self-scrutiny. “I've damned myself forever with her,” he groaned, “unless I can prove something.” The vision of Titania's face silhouetted against the. shelves of books came maddeningly to his mind. "I was going to have such a good time, and you've spoilt it all!” With what angry conviction she had said: “I never saw a man like you before and I've seen a good many!” Even in his disturbance of soul the familiar . THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 217 ance, jargon of his profession came naturally to utter- “At least she admits I'm different,” he said dolefully. He remembered the first item in the Grey-Matter Code, a neat little booklet issued by his employers for the information of their repre- sentatives: Business is built upon Confidence. Before you can sell Grey-Matter Service to a Client, you must sell Yourself. “How am I going to sell myself to her?” he wondered. “I've simply got to deliver, that's all. I've got to give her service that's different. If I fall down on this, she'll never speak to me again. Not only that, the firm will lose the old man's account. It's simply unthinkable." Nevertheless, he thought about it a good deal, stimulated from time to time as in the course of his walk (which led him out toward the faubourgs of Flatbush) he passed long vistas of signboards, which he imagined placarded with vivid litho- graphs in behalf of the Chapman prunes. “Adam and Eve Ate Prunes on Their Honeymoon” was a slogan that flashed into his head, and he imagined a magnificent painting illustrating this text. Thus, in hours of stress, do all men turn for comfort to their chosen art. The poet, battered by fate, heals himself in the niceties of rhyme. The prohibi. 218 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP tionist can weather the blackest melancholia by meditating the contortions of other people's ab- stinence. The most embittered citizen of De- troit will never perish by his own hand while he has an automobile to tinker. Aubrey walked many miles, gradually throwing his despair to the winds. The bright spirits of Orison Swett Marden and Ralph Waldo Trine, Dioscuri of Good Cheer, seemed to be with him reminding him that nothing is impossible. In a small restaurant he found sausages, griddle cakes and syrup. When he got back When he got back to Gissing Street it was dark, and he girded his soul for further endeavour. About nine o'clock he walked up the alley. He had left his overcoat in his room at Mrs. Schiller's and also the Cromwell bookcover-having taken the precaution, however, to copy the inscriptions into his pocket memorandum-book. He noticed lights in the rear of the bookshop, and concluded that the Mifflins and their employee had got home safely. Arrived at the back of Weintraub's pharmacy, he studied the contours of the building carefully. The drug store lay, as we have explained before, at the corner of Gissing Street and Wordsworth Avenue, just where the Elevated railway swings in y long curve. The course of this curve brought the THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 219 scaffolding of the viaduct out over the back roof of the building, and this fact had impressed itself on Aubrey's observant eye the day before. The front of the drug store stood three storeys, but in the rear it dropped to two, with a flat roof over the hinder portion. Two windows looked out upon this roof. Weintraub's back yard opened onto the alley, but the gate, he found, was locked. The fence would not be hard to scale, but he hesitated to make so direct an approach. He ascended the stairs of the “L” station, on the near side, and paying a nickel passed through a turnstile onto the platform. Waiting until just after a train had left, and the long, windy sweep of planking was solitary, he dropped onto the nar- row footway that runs beside the track. This required watchful walking, for the charged third rail was very near, but hugging the outer side of the path he proceeded without trouble. Every fifteen feet or so a girder ran sideways from the track, resting upon an upright from the street below. The fourth of these overhung the back corner of Weintraub's house, and he crawled cautiously along it. People were passing on the pavement underneath, and he greatly feared being dis- covered. But he reached the end of the beam without mishap. From here a drop of about twelve feet would bring him onto Weintraub's 220 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP back roof. For a moment he reflected that, once down there, it would be impossible to return the same way. However, he decided to risk it. Where he was, with his legs swinging astride the girder, he was in serious danger of attracting attention. He would have given a great deal, just then, to have his overcoat with him, for by lowering it first he could have jumped onto it and muffled the noise of his fall. He took off his coat and care- fully dropped it on the corner of the roof. Then cannily waiting until a train passed overhead, drowning all other sounds with its roar, he lowered himself as far as he could hang by his hands, and let go. For some minutes he lay prone on the tin roof, and during that time a number of distressing ideas occurred to him. If he really expected to get into Weintraub's house, why had he not laid his plans more carefully? Why (for instance) had he not made some attempt to find out how many there were in the household? Why had he not ar- ranged with one of his friends to call Weintraub to the telephone at a given moment, so that he could be more sure of making an entry unnoticed. And what did he expect to see or do if he got inside the house? He found no answer to any of these questions. 222 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP and ſay there peering in. The sill was just high enough above the roof level to make it necessary to raise himself a little on his hands to see inside, and the position was very trying. Moreover, the tin roof had a tendency to crumple noisily when he moved. He lay for some time, shivering in the chill, and wondering whether it would be safe to light a pipe. “There's another thing I'd better look out for," he thought, “and that's a dog. Who ever heard of a German without a dachshund?” He had watched the lighted doorway for a long while without seeing anything, and was beginning to think he was losing time to no profit when a stout and not ill-natured looking woman appeared in the hallway. She came into the room he was studying, and closed the door. She switched on the light, and to his horror began to disrobe. This was not what he had counted on at all, and he retreated rapidly. It was plain that nothing was to be gained where he was. He sat timidly at one edge of the roof and wondered what to do next. As he sat there, the back door opened almost directly below him, and he heard the clang of a garbage can set out by the stoop. The door stood open for perhaps half a minute, and he heard a male voice-Weintraub's, he thought-speaking THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 223 in German. For the first time in his life he yearned for the society of his German instructor at college, and also wondered—in the rapid irrelevance of thought-what that worthy man was now doing to earn a living. In a rather long and poorly lubricated sentence, heavily verbed at the end, he distinguished one phrase that seemed important. “Nach Philadelphia gehen”-“Go to Philadel- phia.” Did that refer to Mifflin? he wondered. The door closed again. Leaning over the rain- gutter, he saw the light go out in the kitchen. He tried to look through the upper portion of the window just below him, but leaning out too far, the tin spout gave beneath his hands.' Without knowing just how he did it, he slithered down the side of the wall, and found his feet on a window- sill. His hands still clung to the tin gutter above. He made haste to climb down from his position, and found himself outside the back door. He had managed the descent rather more quietly than if it had been carefully planned. But he was badly startled, and retreated to the bottom of the yard to see if he had aroused notice. 'A wait of several minutes brought no alarm, and he plucked up courage. On the inner side of the house-away from Wordsworth Avenue-a nar- Tow paved passage led to an outside cellar-war 224 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOI with old-fashioned slanting doors. He recone noitred this warily. A bright light was shining from a window in this alley. He crept below it on hands and knees fearing to look in until he had investigated a little. He found that one flap of the cellar door was open, and poked his nose into the aperture. All was dark below, but a strong, damp stench of paints and chemicals arose. He sniffed gingerly. "I suppose he stores drugs down there," he thought. Very carefully he crawled back, on hands and knees, toward the lighted window. Lifting his head a few inches at a time, finally he got his eyes above the level of the sill. To his disappointment he found the lower half of the window frosted. As he knelt there, a pipe set in the wall suddenly vomited liquid which gushed out upon his knees. He sniffed it, and again smelled a strong aroma of acids. With great care, leaning against the brick wall of the house, he rose to his feet and peeped through the upper half of the pane. It seemed to be the room where prescriptions were compounded. As it was empty, he allowed himself a hasty survey. All manner of bottles were ranged along the walls; there was a high counter. with scales, a desk, and a sink. At the back he could see the bamboo curtain which he remembered having noticed from the shon. The 226 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP thrusting chin buttressed on a mass of jaw and suetty cheek that glistened with an oily shimmer, The jaw quivered a little as though with some in- tense suppressed emotion. The man was com- pletely absorbed in his task. The thick lower lip lapped upward over the mouth. On the cheek- bone was a deep red scar. Aubrey felt a pang of fascinated amazement at the gross energy and power of that abominable relentless mask. “So this is the harmless old thing!” he thought. Just then the bamboo curtain parted, and the woman whom he had seen upstairs appeared. Forgetting his own situation, Aubrey still stared. She wore a faded dressing gown and her hair was braided as though for the night. She looked frightened, and must have spoken, for Aubrey saw her lips move. The man remained bent over his counter until the last drops of liquid had run out. His jaw tightened, he straightened sud- denly and took one step toward her, with out- stretched hand imperiously pointed. Aubrey could see his face plainly: it had a savagery more than bestial. The woman's face, which had borne a timid, pleading expression, appealed in vain against that fierce gesture. She turned and vanished. Aubrey saw the druggist's pointing finger tremble. Again he ducked out of sight. “That man's face would be lonely in a crowd," THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 227 he said to himself. “And I used to think the movies exaggerated things. Say, he ought to play opposite Theda Bara.” He lay at full length in the paved alley and thought that a little acquaintance with Weintraub would go a long way. Then the light in the win- dow above him went out, and he gathered himself together for quick motion if necessary. Per- haps the man would come out to close the cellar door- The thought was in his mind when a light flashed on farther down the passage, between him and the kitchen. It came from a small barred window on the ground level. Evidently the drug- gist had gone down into the cellar. Aubrey crawled silently along toward the yard. Reaching the lit pane he lay against the wall and looked in. The window was too grimed for him to see clearly, but what he could make out had the ap- pearance of a chemical laboratory and machine shop combined. A long work bench was lit by several electrics. On it he saw glass vials of odd shapes, and a medley of tools. Sheets of tin, lengths of lead pipe, gas burners, a vise, boilers and cylinders, tall jars of coloured fluids. He could hear a dull humming sound, which he sur- mised came from some sort of revolving tool which he could see was run by a belt from a motor, THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 229 >> “Well,” he thought, “I'd give full-page space, preferred position, in the magazine Ben Franklin founded to the guy that'd tell me what's going on at this grand bolshevik headquarters. It looks to me as though they're getting ready to blow the Octagon Hotel off the map. He found a little confectionery shop on Words- worth Avenue that was still open, and went in for a cup of hot chocolate to warm himself. “The expense account on this business is going to be rather heavy,” he said to himself. “I think I'll have to charge it up to the Daintybits account. Say, old Grey Matter gives service that's different, don't she! We not only keep Chapman's goods in the public eye, but we face all the horrors of Brook- lyn to preserve his family from unlawful occasions. No, I don't like the company that bookseller runs with. If 'nach Philadelphia' is the word, I think I'll tag along. I guess it's off for Philadelphia in the morning!” -- THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 231 followed at a discreet distance, taking care not to be observed. The bookseller and his pursuer both boarded the eight o'clock train at the Pennsylvania Station, but in very different moods. To Roger, this expedition was a frolic, pure and simple. He had been tied down to the bookshop so long that a day's excursion seemed too good to be true. He bought two cigars-an unusual luxury-and let the morning paper lie unheeded in his lap as the train drummed over the Hackensack marshes. He felt a good deal of pride in having been summoned to appraise the Oldham library. Mr. Oldham was a very distinguished collector, a wealthy Philadelphia merchant whose choice Johnson, Lamb, Keats, and Blake items were the envy of connoisseurs all over the world. Roger knew very well that there were many better-known dealers who would have jumped at the chance to examine the collection and pocket the appraiser's fee. The word that Roger had had by long dis- tance telephone was that Mr. Oldham had decided to sell his collection, and before putting it to auc- tion desired the advices of an expert as to the prices his items should command in the present state of the market. And as Roger was not particularly conversant with current events in the worla of rare books and manuscripts, he spent most of the THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 233 Among other discontents was the knowledge that he did not have enough money with him to pay his fare back to New York, and he would either have to borrow from someone in Philadelphia or wire to his office for funds. He had not antici- pated, when setting out upon this series of adven- tures, that it would prove so costly. The train drew into Broad Street station at ten o'clock, and Aubrey followed the bookseller through the bustling terminus and round the City Hall plaza. Mifflin seemed to know his way, but Philadelphia was comparatively strange to the Grey-Matter solicitor. He was quite surprised at the impressive vista of South Broad Street, and chagrined to find people jostling him on the crowded pavement as though they did not know he had just come from New York. Roger turned in at a huge office building on Broad Street and took an express elevator. Au- brey did not dare follow him into the car, so he waited in the lobby. He learned from the starter that there was a second tier of elevators on the other side of the building, so he tipped a boy a quarter to watch them for him, describing Mifflin so accurately that he could not be missed. By this time Aubrey was in a thoroughly ill temper, and enjoyed quarrelling with the starter on the subject of indicators for showing the position of THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 235 “Did you have an appointment with Mr. Old- ham?” she said. “He doesn't seem to recall it." “Why, certainly,” said Roger. “It was ar- ranged by telephone on Saturday afternoon. Mr. Oldham's secretary called me up." “Have I got your name right?” she asked, showing a slip on which she had written Mr. Miflin. “Two f's,” said Roger. “Mr. Roger Mifflin, the bookseller." The girl retired, and came back a moment later. “Mr. Oldham's very busy,” she said, “but he can see you for a moment.” Roger was ushered into the private office, a large, airy room lined with bookshelves. Mr. Oldham, a tall, thin man with short gray hair and lively black eyes, rose courteously from his desk, “How do you do, sir,” he said. “I'm sorry, I had forgotten our appointment.” “He must be very absent minded,” thought Roger. “Arranges to sell a collection worth half a million, and forgets all about it.” “I came over in response to your message, he said. “About selling your collection." Mr. Oldham looked at him, rather intently, Roger thought. “Do you want to buy it?" he said. "To buy it?” said Roger, a little peevishly. 99 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 237 let's consider the trip wasted. Won't you come out and dine with me in the country this evening, and see my things?” But Roger was too proud to accept this balm, courteous as it was. “I'm sorry," he said, “but I'm afraid I can't do it. I'm rather busy at home, and only came over because I believed this to be urgent.” "Some other time, perhaps,” said Mr. Oldham, “Look here, you're a bookseller? I don't believe I know your shop. Give me your card. The next time I'm in New York I'd like to stop in.” Roger got away as quickly as the other's polite- ness would let him. He chafed savagely at the awkwardness of his position. Not until he reached the street again did he breathe freely. “Some of Jerry Gladfist's tomfoolery, I'll bet a hat,” he muttered. “By the bones of Fanny Kelly, I'll make him smart for it.” Even Aubrey, picking up the trail again, could see that Roger was angry. “Something's got his goat,” he reflected. “I wonder what he's peeved about?” They crossed Broad Street and Roger started off down Chestnut. Aubrey saw the bookseller halt in a doorway to light his pipe, and stopped some yards behind him to look up at the statue of William Penn on the City Hall. It was a blustery 238 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP day, and at that moment a gust of wind whipped off his hat and sent it spinning down Broad Street. He ran half a block before he recaptured it. When he got back to Chestnut, Roger had disappeared. He hurried down Chestnut Street, bumping pe- destrians in his eagerness, but at Thirteenth he halted in dismay. Nowhere could he see a sign of the little bookseller. He appealed to the police- man at that corner, but learned nothing. Vainly he scoured the block and up and down Juniper Street. It was eleven o'clock, and the streets were thronged. He cursed the book business in both hemispheres, cursed himself, and cursed Philadelphia. Then he went into a tobacconist's and bought a packet of cigarettes. For an hour he patrolled up and down Chestnut Street, on both sides of the way, thinking he might possibly encounter Roger. At the end of this time he found himself in front of a newspaper office, and remembered that an old friend of his was an edi- torial writer on the staff. He entered, and went up in the elevator. He found his friend in a small grimy den, sur rounded by a sea of papers, smoking a pipe with his feet on the table. They greeted each other joyfully. “Well, look who's here!” cried the facetions THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 239 Journalist. “Tamburlaine the Great, and none other! What brings you to this distant outpost?” Aubrey grinned at the use of his old college nickname. “I've come to lunch with you, and borrow enough money to get home with." “On Monday?” cried the other. “Tuesday being the day of stipend in these quarters? Nay, say not so!” They lunched together at a quiet Italian restau- rant, and Aubrey narrated tersely the adventures of the past few days. The newspaper man smoked pensively when the story was concluded. “I'd like to see the girl,” he said. “Tambo, your tale hath the ring of sincerity. It is full of sound and fury, but it signifieth something. You say your man is a second-hand bookseller?" “Yes.” “Then I know where you'll find him." “Nonsense!” “It's worth trying. Go up to Leary's, 9 South Ninth. It's right on this street. I'll show you. “Let's go,” said Aubrey promptly. “Not only that,” said the other, “but I'll lend you my last V. Not for your sake, but on behalf of the girl. Just mention my name to her, will you? “Right up the block,” he pointed as they reached Chestnut Street. “No, I won't come with you, 29 99 240 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP Wilson's speaking to Congress to-day, and there's big stuff coming over the wire. So long, old man. Invite me to the wedding!” Aubrey had no idea what Leary's was, and rather expected it to be a tavern of some sort. When he reached the place, however, he saw why his friend had suggested it as a likely lurking ground for Roger. It would be as impossible for any bib- liophile to pass this famous second-hand bookstore as for a woman to go by a wedding party without trying to see the bride. Although it was a bleak day, and a snell wind blew down the street, the pavement counters were lined with people turning over disordered piles of volumes. Within, he could see a vista of white shelves, and the many-coloured tapestry of bindings stretching far away to the rear of the building. He entered eagerly, and looked about. The shop was comfortably busy, with a number of people browsing. They seemed normal enough from behind, but in their eyes he detected the wild, peering glitter of the bibliomaniac. Here and there stood members of the staff. Upon their features Aubrey discerned the placid and philo- sophic tranquillity which he associated with second-hand booksellers-all save Mifflin. He paced through the narrow aisles, scanning the blissful throng of seekers. He went down to 242 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP The bookseller, douce man, had seen too many eccentric customers to be shocked by the vehe- mence of his questioner. ľ “He was here a moment ago," he said gently, and gazed with a mild interest upon the excited young advertising man. “I daresay you'll find him just outside, in Ludlow Street." “Where's that?” The tall man-and I don't see why I should scruple to name him, for it was Philip Warner- explained that Ludlow Street was the narrow alley that runs along one side of Leary's and elbows at right angles behind the shop. Down the flank of the store, along this narrow little street, run shelves of books under a penthouse. It is here that Leary's displays its stock of ragamuffin ten-centers -queer dingy volumes that call to the hearts of gentle questers. Along these historic shelves many troubled spirits have come as near happi- ness as they are like to get for after all, happiness (as the mathematicians might say) lies on a curve, and we approach it only by asymptote. The frequenters of this alley call them selves whimsically The Ludlow Street Business Men's Association, and Charles Lamb or Eugene Field would have been proud to preside at their annual dinners, at which the members recoun their happiest book-finds of the year. . THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 243 Aubrey rushed out of the shop and looked down the alley. Half a dozen Ludlow Street Business Men were groping among the shelves. Then, down at the far end, his small face poked into an open volume, he saw Roger. He approached with a rapid stride. “Well," he said angrily, “here you are!" Roger looked up from his bookgood-humouredly. Apparently, in the zeal of his favourite pastime, he had forgotten where he was. “Hullo!” he said. “What are you doing in Brooklyn? Look here, here's a copy of Tooke's Pantheon “What's the idea?” cried Aubrey harshly. “Are you trying to kid me? What are you and Weintraub framing up here in Philadelphia?” Roger's mind came back to Ludlow Street. He looked with some surprise at the flushed face of the young man, and put the book back in its place on the shelf, making a mental note of its location. His disappointment of the morning came back to him with some irritation. “What are you talking about?” he said. “What the deuce business is it of yours?” “I'll make it my business,” said Aubrey, and shook his fist in the bookseller's face. “I've been trailing you, you scoundrel, and I want to know what kind of a game you're playing." CHAPTER XIV THE "CROMWELL” MAKES ITS LASI APPEARANCE Y OU utter idiot,” said Roger, halt an hour later. “Why didn't you tell me all this sooner? Good Lord, man, there's some devil's work going on!” “How the deuce was I to know you knew nothing about it?” said Aubrey impatiently. “You'll grant everything pointed against you? When I saw that guy go into the shop with his own key, what could I think but that you were in league with him? Gracious, man, are you so befuddled in your old books that you don't see what's going on round you?” “What time did you say that was?” said Roger shortly. “One o'clock Sunday morning." Roger thought a minute. “Yes, I was in the ceilar with Bock," he said. “Bock barked, and I thought it was rats. That fellow must have taken an impression of the lock and made himself a key. He's been in the shop hundreds of times, and could '948 250 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP pocket every few minutes. He felt dull and sick with vague fear. To his mind recurred the spiteful buzz of that voice over the wire—“Gissing Street is not healthy for you.” He remembered the scuffle on the Bridge, the whispering in the alley, and the sinister face of the druggist at his prescription counter. The whole series of events seemed a grossly fantastic nightmare, yet it frightened him. “If only I were in Brooklyn,” he groaned, "it wouldn't be so bad. But to be over here, a hun- dred miles away, in another cursed bookshop, while that girl may be in trouble Gosh!” he muttered. "If I get through this business all right I'll lay off bookshops for the rest of my life!” The telephone rang, and Aubrey frantically beckoned to Roger, who was outside, talking. “Answer it, you chump!” said Roger. "We'll vose the connection!” “Nix,” said Aubrey. “If Titania hears my voice she'll ring off. She's sore at me.' Roger ran to the instrument. “Hullo, hullo?" he said, irritably. “Hullo, is that Wordsworth -? Yes, I'm calling Brooklyn-Hullo!” Aubrey, leaning over Roger's shoulder, could hear a clucking in the receiver, and then, incredibly clear, a thin, silver, distant voice. How well he knew it! It seemed to vibrate in the air all about him. He could hear every syllable distinctly. A THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 251 hot perspiration burst out on his forehead and in the palms of his hands. “Hullo,” said Roger. “Is that Mifflin's Book- shop?” “Yes," said Titania. “Is that you, Mr. Mifflin? Where are you?” “In Philadelphia,” said Roger. “Tell me, is everything all right?” "Everything's dandy,” said Titania. “I'm selling loads of books. Mrs. Mifflin's gone out to do some shopping." Aubrey shook to hear the tiny, airy voice, like a trill of birdsong, like a tinkling from some distant star. He could imagine her standing at the phone in the back of the shadowy bookshop, and seemed to see her as though through an inverted telescope, very minute and very perfect. How brave and exquisite she was! “When are you coming home?” she was saying. “About seven o'clock,” said Roger. “Listen, is everything absolutely 0. K.?” “Why, yes," said Titania. “I've been having lots of fun. I went down just now and put some coal on the furnace. Oh, yes. Mr. Weintraub came in a little while ago and left a suitcase of books. He said you wouldn't mind. A friend of his is going to call for them this afternoon." 252 THE HAUNTED BOOKSAOP “Hold the wire a moment,” said Roger, and clapped his hand over the mouthpiece. “She says Weintraub left a suitcase of books there to be called for. What do you make of that?” “For the love of God, tell her not to touch those books.” “Hullo?” said Roger. Aubrey, leaning over him, noticed that the little bookseller's naked pate was ringed with crystal beads. “Hullo?” replied Titania's elfin voice promptly. “Did you open the suitcase?” “No. It's locked. Mr. Weintraub said there were a lot of old books in it for a friend of his. It's very heavy.” “Look here,” said Roger, and his voice rang sharply. “This is important. I don't want you to touch that suitcase. Leave it wherever it is, and don't touch it. Promise me.” “Yes, Mr. Mifflin. Had I better put it in a safe place?” "Don't touch it !” “Bock's sniffing at it now.” “Don't touch it, and don't let Bock touch it. It-it's got valuable papers in it.” “I'll be careful of it," said Titania. “Promise me not to touch it. And another thing—if any one calls for it, don't let them take it until I get home." 66 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 253 Aubrey held out his watch in front of Roger The latter nodded. “Do you understand?” he said. “Do you hear me all right?” “Yes, splendidly. I think it's wonderful! You know I never talked on long distance before “Don't touch the bag,” repeated Roger dog- gedly, "and don't let any one take it until we until I get back.” “I promise," said Titania blithely. “Good-bye,” said Roger, and set down the receiver. His face looked curiously pinched, and there was perspiration in the hollows under his eyes. Aubrey held out his watch impatiently. “We've just time to make it,” cried Roger, and they rushed from the shop. It was not a sprightly journey. The train made its accustomed detour through West Philadelphia and North Philadelphia before getting down to business, and the two voyagers felt a personal hatred of the brakemen who permitted passengers from these suburbs to straggle leisurely aboard instead of flogging them in with knotted whips. When the express stopped at Trenton, Aubrey could easily have turned a howitzer upon that in- nocent city and blasted it into rubble. An unex pected stop at Princeton Junction was the last THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 267 quarters when they were flung sideways into the corner behind Roger's desk. The air was full of flying books. A row of encyclopedias crashed down upon his shoulders, narrowly missing Ti- tania's head. The front windows were shivered into flying streamers of broken glass. The table near the door was hurled into the opposite gallery. With a splintering crash the corner of the gallery above the History alcove collapsed, and hundreds of volumes cascaded heavily on to the floor. The lights went out, and for an instant all was silence. "Are you all right?” said Aubrey hastily. He and Titania had fallen sprawling against the book- seller's desk. "I think so," she said faintly. “Where's Mr. Mifflin?" Aubrey put out his hand to help her, and touched something wet on the floor. “Good heavens,” he thought. “She's dying!” He strug- gled to his feet in the darkness. “Hullo, Mr. Mifflin,” he called, “where are you?” There was no answer. A beam of light gushed out from the passage- way behind the shop, and picking his way over fallen litter he found Mrs. Mifflin standing dazed by the dining-room door. In the back of the house the lights were still burning. 268 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP “For heaven's sake, have you a candle?” he said. “Where's Roger?” she cried piteously, and stumbled into the kitchen. With a candle Aubrey found Titania sitting on the floor, very faint, but unhurt. What he had thought was blood proved to be a pool of ink from a quart bottle that had stood over Roger's desk. He picked her up like a child and carried her into the kitchen. "Stay here and don't stir,” he said. By this time a crowd was already gathering on the pavement. Someone came in with a lantern. Three policemen appeared at the door. “For God's sake,” cried Aubrey, “get a light in here so we can see what's happened. Mifflin's buried in this mess somewhere. Someone ring for an ambulance.” The whole front of the Haunted Bookshop was a wreck. In the pale glimmer of the lantern it was a disastrous sight. Helen groped her way down the shattered aisle. “Where was he?" she cried wildly. “Thanks to that set of Trollope,” said a voice in the remains of the Fiction alcove, “I think I'm all ght. Books make good shock-absorbers. Is any one hurt?" It was Roger, half stunned, but undamaged. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 269 He crawled out from under a case of shelves that had crumpled down upon him. “Bring that lantern over here,” said Aubrey, pointing to a dark heap lying on the floor under the broken fragments of Roger's bulletin board. It was the chef. He was dead. And clinging to his leg was all that was left of Bock. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 271 to have been placed in the Presidential suite of the steamship, indignation knew no bounds. Mrs. J. F. Smith left Mrs. Schiller's lodgings, declaring that she would stay no longer in a pro-German colony; and Aubrey was able at last to get a much- needed bath. For the next three days he was too busy with agents of the Department of Justice to be able to carry on an investigation of his own that greatly occupied his mind. But late on Friday after- noon he called at the bookshop to talk things over. The debris had all been neatly cleared away, and the shattered front of the building boarded up. Inside, Aubrey found Roger seated on the floor, looking over piles of volumes that were heaped pell-mell around him. Through Mr. Chapman's influence with a well-known firm of builders, the bookseller had been able to get men to work at once in making repairs, but even so it would be at least ten days, he said, before he could reopen for business. “I hate to lose the value of all this advertising," he lamented. “It isn't often that a second-hand bookstore gets onto the front pages of the newspapers. “I thought you didn't believe in advertising," said Aubrey. “The kind of advertising I believe in," said THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 279 American Booksellers' Association has invited me to give an address at its convention next spring. It's the first recognition I've ever had. If it weren't for poor dear old Bock- Come, we've buried him in the back yard. I want to show you his grave.” Over a pathetically small mound near the fence a bunch of big yellow chrysanthemums were stand- ing in a vase. “Titania put those there,” said Roger. “She says she's going to plant a dogwood tree there in the spring. We intend to put up a little stone for him, and I'm trying to think of an inscription, I thought of De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum, but that's a bit too flippant. The living quarters of the house had not been damaged by the explosion, and Roger took Aubrey back to the den. “You've come just at the right time," he said. “Mr. Chapman's coming to dinner this evening, and we'll all have a good talk. There's a lot about this business I don't under- stand yet.” Aubrey was still keeping his eye open for a sign of Titania's presence, and Roger noticed his wan- dering gaze. “This is Miss Chapman's afternoon off," he said. “She got her first salary to-day, and was so much exhilarated that she went to New York to 274 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP blow it in. She's out with her father. Excuse me, please, I'm going to help Helen get dinner ready.” Aubrey sat down by the fire, and lit his pipe. The burden of his meditation was that it was just a week since he had first met Titania, and in all that week there had been no waking moment when he had not thought of her. He was wondering how long it might take for a girl to fall in love? A man-he knew now-could fall in love in five minutes, but how did it work with girls? He was also thinking what unique Daintybits advertis- ing copy he could build (like all ad men he al. ways spoke of building an ad, never of writing one) out of this affair if he could only use the inside stuff. He heard a rustle behind him, and there she was. She had on a gray fur coat and a lively little hat. Her cheeks were delicately tinted by the winter air. Aubrey rose. “Why, Mr. Gilbert!” she said. “Where have you been keeping yourself when I wanted to see you so badly? I haven't seen you, not to talk to, since last Sunday.” He found it impossible to say anything intel- ligible. She threw off her coat, and went on, with a wistful gravity that became her even more than smiles: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 275 "Mr. Mifflin has told me some more about what you did last week-I mean, how you took a room across the street and spied upon that hateful man and saw through the whole thing when we were too blind to know what was going on. And I want to apologize for the silly things I said that Sunday morning. Will you forgive me?” Aubrey had never felt his self-salesmanship ability at such a low ebb. To his unspeakable horror, he felt his eyes betray him. They grew moist. “Please don't talk like that,” he said. “I had no right to do what I did, anyway. And I was wrong in what I said about Mr. Mifflin. I don't wonder you were angry.” “Now surely you're not going to deprive me of the pleasure of thanking you,” she said. “You know as well as I do that you saved my life all our lives, that night. I guess you'd have saved poor Bock's, too, if you could.” Her eyes filled with tears. “If anybody deserves credit, it's you,” he said. “Why, if it hadn't been for you they'd have been away with that suitcase and probably Metzger would have got his bomb on board the ship and the President “I'm not arguing with you,” she said. “I'm just thanking you." blown up THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 277 derous plots of his, but he threatened to kill her if she thwarted him. She lived in terror of her life. I can believe it, for I remember her face when her husband looked at her. “Of course to make the bomb was simple enough for Weintraub. He had an infernally complete laboratory in the cellar of his house, where he had made hundreds. The problem was, how to make a bomb that would not look suspicious, and how to get it into the President's private cabin. He hit on the idea of binding it into the cover of a book. How he came to choose that particular volume, I don't know." “I think probably I gave him the idea quite innocently,” said Roger. “He used to come in here a good deal and one day he asked me whether Mr. Wilson was a great reader. I said that I believed he was, and then mentioned the Croma well, which I had heard was one of Wilson's favourite books. Weintraub was much interested and said he must read the book some day. member now that he stood in that alcove for some time, looking over it.” “Well,” said Aubrey, "it must have seemed to him that luck was playing into his hands. This man Metzger, who had been an assistant chef at the Octagon for years, was slated to go on board the George Washington with the party of cooks I re- THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 287 shop again early Sunday morning. He had to bave the cover of the book to bind his bomb in.” Aubrey was agreeably conscious of the closi attention of his audience. He caught Titania' gaze, and flushed a little. “That's pretty nearly all there is to it,” he said “I knew that if those guys were so keen to put me out of the way there must be something rather rotten on foot. I came over to Brooklyn the next afternoon, Saturday, and took a room across the street.” “And we went to the movies," chirped Titania. “The rest of it I think you all know-except Metzger's visit to my lodgings that night." He described the incident. “You see they were trail- ing me pretty close. If I hadn't happened to notice the cigar at my window I guess he'd have had me on toast. Of course you know how wrongly I doped it out. I thought Mr. Mifflin was run- ning with them, and I owe him my apology for that. He's laid me out once on that score, over in Philadelphia.” Humorously, Aubrey narrated how he had sleuthed the bookseller to Ludlow Street, and had been worsted in battle. “I think they counted on disposing of me sooner or later,” said Aubrey. “They framed up that telephone call to get Mr. Mifflin out of town. The 282 THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP point in having Metzger come to the bookshop to get the suitcase was to clear Weintraub's skirts if possible. Apparently it was just a bag of old books. The bombed book, I guess, was perfectly harmless until any one tried to open it.” “You both got back just in the nick of time," said Titania admiringly. “You see I was all alone most of the afternoon. Weintraub left the suit- case about two o'clock. Metzger came for it about six. I refused to let him have it. He was very persistent, and I had to threaten to set Bock at him. It was all I could do to hold the dear old dog in, he was so keen to go for Metzger. The chef went away, and I suppose he went up to see Weintraub about it. I hid the suitcase in my room. Mr. Mifflin had forbidden me to touch it, but I thought that the safest thing to do. Then Mrs. Mifflin came in. We let Bock into the yard for a run, and were getting supper. I heard the bell ring, and went into the shop. There were the two Germans, pulling down the shades. I asked what they meant by it, and they grabbed me and told me to shut up. Then Metzger pointed a pistol at me while the other one tied up Mrs. Mifflin." “The damned scoundrels!” cried Aubrey. “They got what was coming to them.” "Well, my friends," said Mr. Chapman, "Let's UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN OVERIS PENINSULAMAMENAM 1817 SCIENTIA ARTES VERITAS LIBRARY OF THE TERROR CIRCUMSPICE Gift of Dr. Philip Parker