into a corridor; but the man never raised his head. He was an old man
with grey hair, clad in a cloudy kind of gown; his face seemed stern
and sad; over his head played a curious radiance, as though from some
unseen source, which brightened into two clear centres or points of
light over his brows.

While he still wrote, some one whom Linus could not see very
distinctly came quietly into the room through the archway, carrying in
his arms another volume like the one in which the man was writing; the
writer never raised his head, but Linus saw that he was finishing the
last page of the book; as he finished he pushed it aside with
something of impatience in his gesture; the other laid the new volume
before him, and the man began at once to write, as though eager to
make up for the moment's interruption; the other took up the finished
book, clasped it, and went silently out.

"This is a very strange thing," said Linus faltering. "Who would have
supposed there was a room in there? I had thought it gave upon the
street."

"There are hidden rooms everywhere," said Dion; "but I see that you
are not satisfied; you may go in and look closer; you cannot interrupt
him who writes; he has no eyes but for his task--and no one here will
notice you."

Linus looked round; it seemed to him indeed as though by some strange
attraction the party had been drawn into two groups right and left of
him, and that he and Dion were left alone; the merriment was louder
and wilder, and frequent peals of laughter indicated to him the
telling of some tale--wicked it seemed to him from the glistening eyes
and disordered looks of some of the guests; but the laughter seemed to
come to him far off as through a veil of water. So he rose from his
place and went into the room.

It was very plain and severe; the presses round the room seemed to
contain volumes like that in which the man was writing. It was lit
with a low radiance of its own, very pure and white. He looked into
the door that led into the corridor; it seemed to be brighter in
there. He stood waiting, undecided. He looked first at the man who
wrote; his hand moved with great rapidity, and his face seemed
furrowed and grave; and Linus felt a fear of him, which was increased
by the curious light which seemed to well in fountains from his brow,
lighting the grey hair, the book, and the strong white hands. He
looked back and could see the room he had left. The talk fell on his
ear with a dread