"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 a la Harold Bell Wright."

Aubrey uttered some genial rea.s.surance, 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 current 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 t.i.tania.

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 t.i.tania. "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 Encyclopaedia 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 d.i.c.kens' Christmas Stories?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Suppose we go on reading, shall we?"

"Please do."

"Yes, do go on," said t.i.tania. "Mr. Mifflin was just reading about a most adorable head waiter in a London chop house."

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 pa.s.sage should never be read without something to accompany it. My dear, what do you say to a gla.s.s of sherry all round?"

"It is sad to have to confess it," said Mrs. Mifflin to t.i.tania, "Mr.

Mifflin can never read d.i.c.kens without having something to drink. I think the sale of d.i.c.kens will fall off terribly when prohibition comes in."

"I once took the trouble to compile a list of the amount of liquor drunk in d.i.c.kens' works," said Roger, "and I a.s.sure you the total was astounding: 7,000 hogsheads, I believe it was. Calculations 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 pa.s.sing 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 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 t.i.tania, 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 t.i.tania looked at each other with a touch of embarra.s.sment.

"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."

t.i.tania 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 them. I'm afraid you'll think I'm terribly ignorant----"

"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 t.i.tania.

Aubrey gazed at the fire. He wanted to say that he intended from now on to do a little haunting 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 a.s.sistant chef," said Mrs. Mifflin.

"Anyway, he had a beard like a Christmas tree. He was mighty polite.

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 themselves in their chairs.

"And here's to the new employee," said Helen. This also was dispatched, Aubrey draining his gla.s.s with a zeal which did not escape Miss Chapman's discerning eye. Roger then put out his hand for the d.i.c.kens. 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."

"There's still a stain there," said Aubrey, looking over his shoulder.