of desire. It justified not only his presence in
the Harden Library, but Miss Harden's presence as his collaborator.
With all its unpleasantness it was infinitely preferable to the other
alternative. He let his mind dwell on it until the off-chance began to
look like an absolute certainty.

Put it then that Sir Frederick recovered. In this case the Hardens
scored. Since he had charged Miss Harden fifteen where he was entitled
to fifty, the best part of his labour might be considered a free gift
to the lady. What was more, in the matter of commission, he stood to
lose a very considerable sum. Put it that the chances were even, and
the whole business resolved itself into a game of pitch and toss.
Heads, Miss Harden lost; tails, she won; and he wasn't responsible for
the tossing.

But put it that Sir Frederick did not recover. Then he, Keith Rickman,
was in a position most unpleasant for himself; but he could not make
things a bit pleasanter for Miss Harden by wriggling out of it. The
library would be sold whether he stayed there or not; and by staying
he might possibly protect her interests in the sale. It wasn't a nice
thing to have to be keeping his eye all the time on the Aldine Plato
and the Neapolitan Horace and the _Aurea Legenda_ of Wynkyn de Worde;
but he would only be doing what must be done by somebody in any case.
Conclusion; however unpleasant for him to be the agent for the sale,
it would be safer for Miss Harden.

And how about those confounded profits, represented by his commission?
That was easily settled. He would have nothing to do with the filthy
things. He wouldn't touch his commission with the end of the poker.
Unfortunately he would never be able to explain all this to her, and
Heaven only knew what she would think of him when it all came out in
the long-run, as it was bound to come. Well, it wouldn't matter what
she thought of him so long as he knew that his hands were clean.
Rickman's' hands might not be so presentable, but they were not human
hands as his were; they were the iron, irresponsible hands of a
machine.

There remained his arrangements for the Bank holiday. They seemed to
have been made so long ago that they hardly counted. Still, there was
that engagement to Poppy Grace, and he had promised to take poor
Flossie to the Hippodrome. Poor Flossie would be disappointed if he
did not take her to the Hippodrome. At the moment Flossie's
disappointment presented itself as considerably mor