and withdrew to the front room, where he was
presently joined by the Johns Hopkins man. Fortunately, the colonel gave
them a few moments together.

"Arrange for me to come here daily to study in the library," whispered
Jones to the Latin professor.

The other nodded.

"Now, sit tight," added Jones.

He stepped, soft-footed, on the thick old rug, across to the library
door and threw it open. Just inside stood Livius, an expression
of startled anger on his thin face. Quickly recovering himself, he
explained, in his ready Latin, that he was about to enter and speak to
his patron.

"Shows a remarkable interest in possible conversation," whispered Jones,
on his withdrawal, "for a man who understands no English. Also does
me the honor to suspect me. He must have been a wily chap--in the
Consulship of Plancus."

Before leaving, Average Jones had received from Colonel Graeme a general
invitation to spend as much time as he chose, studying among the books.
The old man-servant, Saul, had orders to admit him at any hour. He
returned to his hotel to write a courteous note of acknowledgment.

Many hours has Average Jones spent more tediously than those passed in
the cool seclusion of Colonel Ridgway Graeme's treasure-house of print.
He burrowed among quaint accumulations of forgotten classics. He dipped
with astonishment into the savage and ultra-Rabelaisian satire of Von
Hutter's "Epistola, Obscurorum Virorumf" which set early sixteenth
century Europe a-roar with laughter at the discomfited monks; and he
cleansed himself from that tainted atmosphere in the fresh air and free
English of a splendid Audubon "first"--and all the time he was conscious
that the Roman watched, watched, watched. More than, once Livius
offered aid, seeking to apprise himself of the supposed mute's line of
investigation; but the other smilingly fended him off. At the end of
four days, Average Jones had satisfied himself that if Livius were
seeking anything in particular, he had an indefinite task before him,
for the colonel's bound treasures were in indescribable confusion.
Apparently he had bought from far and near, without definite theme or
purpose. As he bought he read, and having read, cast aside; and where a
volume fell, there it had license to lie. No cataloguer had ever sought
to restore order to that bibliographic riot. To seek any given book
meant a blind voyage, without compass or chart, throughout the mingled
centuries.

Often Colonel