dressed, into the hall. Meekins was
waiting at the bottom of the stairs, dressed now in somber black.

"Mr. Fentolin will be glad if you will step into his room, sir," he
announced, leading the way.

Mr. Fentolin was seated in his chair, reading the Times in a corner of
his library. Shaped blocks had been placed behind and in front of
the wheels of his little vehicle, to prevent it from moving. A shaded
reading-lamp stood on the table by his side. He did not at once look
up, and Hamel glanced around with genuine admiration. The shelves which
lined the walls and the winged cases which protruded into the room were
filled with books. There was a large oak table with beautifully carved
legs, piled with all sorts of modern reviews and magazines. A log fire
was burning in the big oaken grate. The perfume from a great bowl of
lavender seemed to mingle curiously yet pleasantly with the half musty
odour of the old leather-bound volumes. The massive chimneypiece was of
black oak, and above it were carved the arms of the House of Fentolin.
The walls were oak-panelled to the ceiling.

"Refreshed, I hope, by your bath and change, my dear visitor?" the head
of the house remarked, as he laid down his paper. "Draw a chair up here
and join me in a glass of vermouth. You need not be afraid of it. It
comes to me from the maker as a special favour."

Hamel accepted a quaintly-cut wine-glass full of the amber liquid. Mr.
Fentolin sipped his with the air of a connoisseur.

"This," he continued, "is one of our informal days. There is no one in
the house save my sister-in-law, niece, and nephew, and a poor
invalid gentleman who, I am sorry to say, is confined to his bed. My
sister-in-law is also, I regret to say, indisposed. She desired me to
present her excuses to you and say how greatly she is looking forward to
making your acquaintance during the next few days."

Hamel bowed.

"It is very kind of Mrs. Fentolin," he murmured.

"On these occasions," Mr. Fentolin continued, "we do not make use of a
drawing-room. My niece will come in here presently. You are looking at
my books, I see. Are you, by any chance, a bibliophile? I have a case of
manuscripts here which might interest you."

Hamel shook his head.

"Only in the abstract, I fear," he answered. "I have scarcely opened a
serious book since I was at Oxford."

"What was your year?" Mr. Fentolin asked.

"Fourteen years ago I left Magdalen," Hamel replied. "I had made up
my min