nd dated from Lampsacus, 1734. The engravings seem to me
extremely fine. What do you think?'

He handed Andrea the rare volume, which was illustrated with erotic
vignettes.

'Here is a very notable figure,' he continued, pointing to one of the
vignettes--'something that was quite new to me. None of my erotic
authors mention it.'

He talked incessantly, discussing each detail and following the lines of
the drawing with a flabby white finger, covered with hairs on the first
joint and ending in a polished, pointed nail, a little livid like the
nail of an ape. His voice grated hideously on Sperelli's ear.

'This Dutch edition of Petronius is magnificent. And here is the
_Erotopoegnion_ printed in Paris, 1798. Do you know the poem
attributed to John Wilkes, _An Essay on Women_? This is an edition of
1763.'

The collection was very complete. It comprised all the most infamous,
the most refinedly sensual works that the human mind has produced in the
course of centuries to serve as a commentary to the ancient hymn in
honour of the god of Lampsacus, _Salve! Sancte pater._

The collector took the books down from their shelves and showed them in
turn to his 'young friend,' never pausing in his discourse. His hands
grew caressing as he touched each volume bound in priceless leather or
material. A subtle smile played continually round his lips, and a gleam
as of madness flashed from time to time into his eyes.

'I also possess a first edition of the Epigrams of Martial--the Venice
one, printed by Windelin of Speyer, in folio. This is it. The clasps are
by a master hand.'

Sperelli listened and looked in a sort of stupor that changed by degrees
into horror and distress. His eyes were continually drawn to a portrait
of Elena hanging on the wall against the red damask background.

'That is Elena's portrait by Frederick Leighton. But now, look at this!
The frontispiece, the headings, the initial letters, the marginal
ornaments combine all that is most perfect in the matter of erotic
iconography. Look at the clasps!'

The binding was exquisite. Shark-skin, wrinkled and rough as that which
surrounds the hilts of Japanese sabres covered the sides and back; the
clasps and bosses, of richly silvered bronze, were chased with
consummate elegance, and were worthy to rank with the best work of the
sixteenth century.

'The artist, Francis Redgrave, died in a lunatic asylum. He was a young
genius of great promise. I have all his stud