a
second tier of elevators on the other side of the building, so he
tipped a boy a quarter to watch them for him, describing Mifflin so
accurately that he could not be missed. By this time Aubrey was in a
thoroughly ill temper, and enjoyed quarrelling with the starter on the
subject of indicators for showing the position of the elevators.
Observing that in this building the indicators were glass tubes in
which the movement of the car was traced by a rising or falling column
of coloured fluid, Aubrey remarked testily that that old-fashioned
stunt had long been abandoned in New York. The starter retorted that
New York was only two hours away if he liked it better. This argument
helped to fleet the time rapidly.

Meanwhile Roger, with the pleasurable sensation of one who expects to
be received as a distinguished visitor from out of town, had entered
the luxurious suite of Mr. Oldham. A young lady, rather too
transparently shirtwaisted but fair to look upon, asked what she could
do for him.

"I want to see Mr. Oldham."

"What name shall I say?"

"Mr. Mifflin--Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn."

"Have you an appointment?"

"Yes."

Roger sat down with agreeable anticipation. He noticed the shining
mahogany of the office furniture, the sparkling green jar of drinking
water, the hushed and efficient activity of the young ladies.
"Philadelphia girls are amazingly comely," he said to himself, "but
none of these can hold a candle to Miss Titania."

The young lady returned from the private office looking a little
perplexed.

"Did you have an appointment with Mr. Oldham?" she said. "He doesn't
seem to recall it."

"Why, certainly," said Roger. "It was arranged by telephone on
Saturday afternoon. Mr. Oldham's secretary called me up."

"Have I got your name right?" she asked, showing a slip on which she
had written Mr. Miflin.

"Two f's," said Roger. "Mr. Roger Mifflin, the bookseller."

The girl retired, and came back a moment later.

"Mr. Oldham's very busy," she said, "but he can see you for a moment."

Roger was ushered into the private office, a large, airy room lined
with bookshelves. Mr. Oldham, a tall, thin man with short gray hair
and lively black eyes, rose courteously from his desk.

"How do you do, sir," he said. "I'm sorry, I had forgotten our
appointment."

"He must be very absent minded," thought Roger. "Arranges to sell a
collection worth half a million, and forgets all about it."

"I came