e little money of my own. I find it is often inconvenient for
people to pay down any considerable sum. When, however, I strike a
bargain, my capitalist buys the book, and I make an arrangement with
my customer to pay a certain amount each week, and so even a large
purchase is not felt, as I make the instalments small enough to suit
my client.'

'You are employed during the day, I take it?'

'Yes, I am a clerk in the City.'

Again we were in the blissful realms of fiction!

'Suppose I take this book at ten pounds, what instalment should I have
to pay each week?'

'Oh, what you like, sir. Would five shillings be too much?'

'I think not.'

'Very well, sir, if you pay me five shillings now, I will leave the
book with you, and shall have pleasure in calling this day week for
the next instalment.'

I put my hand into my pocket, and drew out two half-crowns, which I
passed over to him.

'Do I need to sign any form or undertaking to pay the rest?'

The young man laughed cordially.

'Oh, no, sir, there is no formality necessary. You see, sir, this is
largely a labour of love with me, although I don't deny I have my eye
on the future. I am getting together what I hope will be a very
valuable connection with gentlemen like yourself who are fond of
books, and I trust some day that I may be able to resign my place with
the insurance company and set up a choice little business of my own,
where my knowledge of values in literature will prove useful.'

And then, after making a note in a little book he took from his
pocket, he bade me a most graceful good-bye and departed, leaving me
cogitating over what it all meant.

Next morning two articles were handed to me. The first came by post
and was a pamphlet on _Christian Science and Absent-Mindedness_,
exactly similar to the one I had taken away from the old curiosity
shop; the second was a small key made from my wax impression that
would fit the front door of the same shop--a key fashioned by an
excellent anarchist friend of mine in an obscure street near Holborn.

That night at ten o'clock I was inside the old curiosity shop, with a
small storage battery in my pocket, and a little electric glow-lamp at
my buttonhole, a most useful instrument for either burglar or
detective.

I had expected to find the books of the establishment in a safe,
which, if it was similar to the one in Park Lane, I was prepared to
open with the false keys in my possession or to take an impres