ncyclopedias crashed down upon his shoulders, narrowly missing
Titania's head. The front windows were shivered into flying streamers
of broken glass. The table near the door was hurled into the opposite
gallery. With a splintering crash the corner of the gallery above the
History alcove collapsed, and hundreds of volumes cascaded heavily on
to the floor. The lights went out, and for an instant all was silence.

"Are you all right?" said Aubrey hastily. He and Titania had fallen
sprawling against the bookseller's desk.

"I think so," she said faintly. "Where's Mr. Mifflin?"

Aubrey put out his hand to help her, and touched something wet on the
floor. "Good heavens," he thought. "She's dying!" He struggled to his
feet in the darkness. "Hullo, Mr. Mifflin," he called, "where are you?"

There was no answer.

A beam of light gushed out from the passageway behind the shop, and
picking his way over fallen litter he found Mrs. Mifflin standing dazed
by the dining-room door. In the back of the house the lights were
still burning.

"For heaven's sake, have you a candle?" he said.

"Where's Roger?" she cried piteously, and stumbled into the kitchen.

With a candle Aubrey found Titania sitting on the floor, very faint,
but unhurt. What he had thought was blood proved to be a pool of ink
from a quart bottle that had stood over Roger's desk. He picked her up
like a child and carried her into the kitchen. "Stay here and don't
stir," he said.

By this time a crowd was already gathering on the pavement. Someone
came in with a lantern. Three policemen appeared at the door.

"For God's sake," cried Aubrey, "get a light in here so we can see
what's happened. Mifflin's buried in this mess somewhere. Someone
ring for an ambulance."

The whole front of the Haunted Bookshop was a wreck. In the pale
glimmer of the lantern it was a disastrous sight. Helen groped her way
down the shattered aisle.

"Where was he?" she cried wildly.

"Thanks to that set of Trollope," said a voice in the remains of the
Fiction alcove, "I think I'm all right. Books make good
shock-absorbers. Is any one hurt?"

It was Roger, half stunned, but undamaged. He crawled out from under a
case of shelves that had crumpled down upon him.

"Bring that lantern over here," said Aubrey, pointing to a dark heap
lying on the floor under the broken fragments of Roger's bulletin board.

It was the chef. He was dead. And clinging to his leg wa