tance. At least, she would
not suffer. As for himself--He looked round the little back shop, and
tried to recall the fifty years he had spent there, the books he had
bought and sold, the money which had slipped through his fingers, the
friends who had come and gone. Why, as for the books, he seemed to
remember them every one--his joy in the purchase, his pride in
possession, and his grief at letting them go. All the friends gone
before him, his trade sunk to nothing.

"Yet," he murmured, "I thought it would last my time."

But the clock struck six. It was his tea-time. He rose mechanically,
and went upstairs to Iris.

CHAPTER II.

FOX AND WOLF.

Mr. James, left to himself, attempted, in accordance with his daily
custom, to commit a dishonorable action.

That is to say, he first listened carefully to the retreating
footsteps of his master, as he went up the stairs; then he left his
table, crept stealthily into the back shop, and began to pull the
drawers, turn the handle of the safe, and try the desk. Everything was
carefully locked. Then he turned over all the papers on the table, but
found nothing that contained the information he looked for. It was his
daily practice thus to try the locks, in hope that some day the safe,
or the drawers, or the desk would be left open by accident, when he
might be able to solve a certain problem, the doubt and difficulty of
which sore let and hindered him--namely, of what extent, and where
placed, were those great treasures, savings, and investments which
enabled his master to be careless over his business. It was, further,
customary with him to be thus frustrated and disappointed. Having
briefly, therefore, also in accordance with his usual custom,
expressed his disgust at this want of confidence between master and
man, Mr. James returned to his paste and scissors.

About a quarter past six the shop door was cautiously opened, and a
head appeared, which looked round stealthily. Seeing nobody about
except Mr. James, the head nodded, and presently followed by its body,
stepped into the shop.

"Where's the admiral, Foxy?" asked the caller.

"Guv'nor's upstairs, Mr. Joseph, taking of his tea with Miss Iris,"
replied Mr. James, not at all offended by the allusion to his
craftiness. Who should resemble the fox if not the second-hand
bookseller? In no trade, perhaps, can the truly admirable qualities of
that animal--his patience, his subtlety and craft, his pertinacity,