our sake, but on behalf of the girl. Just mention my name to her,
will you?

"Right up the block," he pointed as they reached Chestnut Street. "No,
I won't come with you, Wilson's speaking to Congress to-day, and
there's big stuff coming over the wire. So long, old man. Invite me
to the wedding!"

Aubrey had no idea what Leary's was, and rather expected it to be a
tavern of some sort. When he reached the place, however, he saw why
his friend had suggested it as a likely lurking ground for Roger. It
would be as impossible for any bibliophile to pass this famous
second-hand bookstore as for a woman to go by a wedding party without
trying to see the bride. Although it was a bleak day, and a snell wind
blew down the street, the pavement counters were lined with people
turning over disordered piles of volumes. Within, he could see a vista
of white shelves, and the many-coloured tapestry of bindings stretching
far away to the rear of the building.

He entered eagerly, and looked about. The shop was comfortably busy,
with a number of people browsing. They seemed normal enough from
behind, but in their eyes he detected the wild, peering glitter of the
bibliomaniac. Here and there stood members of the staff. Upon their
features Aubrey discerned the placid and philosophic tranquillity which
he associated with second-hand booksellers--all save Mifflin.

He paced through the narrow aisles, scanning the blissful throng of
seekers. He went down to the educational department in the basement,
up to the medical books in the gallery, even back to the sections of
Drama and Pennsylvania History in the raised quarterdeck at the rear.
There was no trace of Roger.

At a desk under the stairway he saw a lean, studious, and
kindly-looking bibliosoph, who was poring over an immense catalogue.
An idea struck him.

"Have you a copy of Carlyle's Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell?"
he asked.

The other looked up.

"I'm afraid we haven't," he said. "Another gentleman was in here
asking for it just a few minutes ago."

"Good God!" cried Aubrey. "Did he get it?"

This emphasis brought no surprise to the bookseller, who was accustomed
to the oddities of edition hunters.

"No," he said. "We didn't have a copy. We haven't seen one for a long
time."

"Was he a little bald man with a red beard and bright blue eyes?" asked
Aubrey hoarsely.

"Yes--Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn. Do you know him?"

"I should say I do!" crie