eel in the mood for the good woman's chatter and delayed going in
her direction as long as possible.

So it came about that, pausing for a few moments at the window before
doing so, she heard the click of the gate and saw the old postman coming
up the path.

He moved slowly and with some difficulty, being heavily laden as well as
bowed with age and rheumatism. She went quickly to the outer door, and,
accompanied by the growling Columbus, moved to meet him.

"Evening, ma'am! Here's a parcel for you!" the old man said. "It's books,
and it's all come to bits, but I don't think as I've dropped any of 'em.
You'd best let me bring 'em straight in for I'm all fixed up with 'em
now, and they'll only scatter if you tries to take 'em."

She led the way within, commiserating him on the weight of his burden
which he thumped down without ceremony on the white cloth that she had
just spread. The parcel was certainly badly damaged, and books in white
covers began to slide out of it the moment they were released.

"I'll leave you to sort 'em, ma'am," he said airily. "Daresay as they're
not much the worse. Schoolmaster's truck I've no doubt. If there was
fewer books in the world, the postman would have an easier life than what
he does and no one much worse off than they be now--except the clever
folks as writes 'em! Well, I'll be getting along to the Court, ma'am, and
I wish you a very good-night."

He stumped away, and in the failing evening light Juliet began to gather
up the confusion he had left behind. She found it was not a collection
of paper-backed school-books as she had at first imagined, and since the
contents of the parcel were very thoroughly scattered she glanced at them
with idle curiosity as she laid them together.

Then with a sudden violent start she picked up one of the volumes and
looked at it closely. The title stood out with arresting clearness on the
white paper jacket: _Gold of the Desert_ by _Dene Strange_. Author of
_The Valley of Dry Bones_, _Marionettes_, etc.

She caught her breath. Something sprang up within her--something that
clamoured grotesque and incoherent things. Her heart was beating so fast
that it seemed continuous like the dull roar of the sea. The volumes were
all alike--all copies of one book.

A sheet of paper fluttered from the one she held. She snatched at it
with a curious desperation--as though, sinking in deep waters, she
clutched at a straw.

_Author's Copies_--_With Complimen