, that evening, Sir Peter sat before his library fire.
An open magazine lay on his knee, pages downward. He held an unlighted
cigar in his hand. He stared moodily into the glowing coals. There were
new, sad lines in his stern face.

Burbage entered. "Mr. Rowlandson to see you, sir. A very particular
matter, sir, he says."

Sir Peter rose slowly when Mr. Rowlandson was shown into the room. Under
his arm were three parcels.

"Glad to see you, Rowlandson," said Sir Peter. "How have you been since
we met last? H'm. It must be two years, or longer."

"Thank you. I have enjoyed very good health, Sir Peter. Yes, it is all
of two years. I hope you are quite well, sir."

"Fair; fair," said Sir Peter.

"We do not get younger as we grow older," observed Mr. Rowlandson. He
laid two of the parcels on the big table, under the reading-lamp, and
proceeded to untie the other.

A smile flickered across Sir Peter's face; he liked the old bookseller's
sturdy, independent ways. He had been dealing with him for a quarter of
a century.

"My lad failed me to-day," Mr. Rowlandson explained, "and as I had an
old print of Charterhouse to be delivered to a customer, not far from
here, I thought I would bring you something that came this morning--a
book. A book for which you have waited a long time."

Sir Peter drew his eyeglass from his pocket, and straightened the heavy,
black silk cord.

"Well, well!" said he, when Mr. Rowlandson handed him the book, opened
at the title-page, with a little air of triumph. "The 'Proceedings' for
1848. This volume completes my set. It has given you a good bit of
trouble, eh?" He leafed it through, and examined one of the plates with
interest.

"Oh, nothing to speak of," replied the bookseller, rubbing his hands
together with satisfaction, nevertheless.

Sir Peter drew a check-book from a drawer; the amount was named.

"Take a chair, Rowlandson," said Sir Peter. The check was written. Mr.
Rowlandson folded it precisely and put it into his pocketbook. They sat
for a moment or two without speaking. If the bookseller was expected to
take his departure, Sir Peter was too courteous to say so.

"Will you drink a glass of sherry?" he asked, and touched a button, near
the fireplace. The sherry was served. The old bookseller squinted
through his glass at the light.

"About the same date as the 'Proceedings,' or thereabouts?" he remarked
interrogatively.

Sir Peter nodded. "Fifty-two. A choice year."