t-hand corner of the shop. Through the glasses he
could see the yellow circle of a flashlight splotched upon dim shelves
of books. He saw Weintraub pull a volume out of the case, and the
light vanished. Another instant and the man reappeared in the doorway,
closed the door behind him with a gesture of careful silence, and was
off up the street quietly and swiftly. It was all over in a minute.
Two yellow oblongs shone for a minute or two down in the area
underneath the door. Through the glasses he now made out these patches
as the cellar windows. Then they disappeared also, and all was placid
gloom. In the quivering light of the street lamps he could see the
bookseller's sign gleaming whitely, with its lettering THIS SHOP IS
HAUNTED.

Aubrey sat back in his chair. "Well," he said to himself, "that guy
certainly gave his shop the right name. This is by me. I do believe
it's only some book-stealing game after all. I wonder if he and
Weintraub go in for some first-edition faking, or some such stunt as
that? I'd give a lot to know what it's all about."

He stayed by the window on the qui vive, but no sound broke the
stillness of Gissing Street. In the distance he could hear the
occasional rumble of the Elevated trains rasping round the curve on
Wordsworth Avenue. He wondered whether he ought to go over and break
into the shop to see if all was well. But, like every healthy young
man, he had a horror of appearing absurd. Little by little weariness
numbed his apprehensions. Two o'clock clanged and echoed from distant
steeples. He threw off his clothes and crawled into bed.

It was ten o'clock on Sunday morning when he awoke. A broad swath of
sunlight cut the room in half: the white muslin curtain at the window
rippled outward like a flag. Aubrey exclaimed when he saw his watch.
He had a sudden feeling of having been false to his trust. What had
been happening across the way?

He gazed out at the bookshop. Gissing Street was bright and demure in
the crisp quietness of the forenoon. Mifflin's house showed no sign of
life. It was as he had last seen it, save that broad green shades had
been drawn down inside the big front windows, making it impossible to
look through into the book-filled alcoves.

Aubrey put on his overcoat in lieu of a dressing gown, and went in
search of a bathtub. He found the bathroom on his floor locked, with
sounds of leisurely splashing within. "Damn Mrs. J. F. Smith," he