time Larry was bored to extinction, but still charming, as he
always is with women, young or old, pretty or plain. He pretended so
pleasantly to be disappointed at the loss of the book (he loathes
looking at photographs) that Aunt Mary was fired to a renewed effort.

"Why, now I come to think of it," said she, "there's another place in
the attic where the book quite well might be. If you will excuse me,
I'll go up and try to find it."

Larry hastened to protest that he wouldn't trouble her for the world,
but Aunt Mary was firm in her desire to please, though sorry to desert
her guests. As the argument went on, Peter Storm abruptly got up and
handed me a plate of cake. "Heavens, no more!" I murmured in an
anguished whisper. "I feel as if I should never be able to look cake in
the face again."

"Don't then, but look me in the face," he mumbled. I did so, surprised.
"Please ask to go and search for that book, and take me with you," I
saw, rather than heard, the words formed by his lips.

Mine not to question why! Mine but to do or die! Instantly I offered,
in a honeyed tone, to save Aunt Mary for her guests, by myself searching
the attic. (Dear Dad and I stayed with her over one melancholy Christmas
when I was a kid. We arrived by train, of course, and saw nothing of the
country. As for Wenham itself, it was feet deep in snow, so I saw
nothing of that either, but I did see the attic. It was my refuge and my
joy. I worship garrets.) Of this episode I reminded my aunt, and assured
her that, though my last visit had been so long ago, I remembered the
topography of the attic. If she would tell me the place to look, I would
guarantee to find the volume if it existed.

Aunt Mary proceeded at once to mention the date of that Christmas visit,
and my age at the time, so now everybody who can be bothered reckoning
up knows just how long I have been twenty-six. Having made this
revelation to those whom it concerned and did not concern, she decided
to accept my offer. I jumped up to go, and at the door, as if on a
sudden thought, exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Storm, do come along and protect me
from garret ghosts."

He came, and we talked of indifferent things on the way up: of the
house, and the steepness of the attic stairs. At the top of the steps,
however, he changed his tone. Aunt Mary had mentioned a certain oak
secretary-bookcase with glass doors, standing close to the head of the
stairs, and as I steered for it, along a narrow lan