seemed about to say something. I walked slowly away; the man
moved in the same direction. Just in front of the church he made a quick
movement to my side, and spoke.

'Pray excuse me, sir--don't misunderstand me--I only wished to ask whether
you have noticed the name written on the flyleaf of the book you have just
bought?'

The respectful nervousness of his voice naturally made me suppose at first
that the man was going to beg; but he seemed no ordinary mendicant. I
judged him to be about sixty years of age; his long, thin hair and
straggling beard were grizzled, and a somewhat rheumy eye looked out from
his bloodless, hollowed countenance; he was very shabbily clad, yet as a
fallen gentleman, and indeed his accent made it clear to what class he
originally belonged. The expression with which he regarded me had so much
intelligence, so much good-nature, and at the same time such a pathetic
diffidence, that I could not but answer him in the friendliest way. I had
not seen the name on the flyleaf, but at once I opened the book, and by the
light of a gas-lamp read, inscribed in a very fine hand, 'W. R.
Christopherson, 1849.'

'It is my name,' said the stranger, in a subdued and uncertain voice.

'Indeed? The book used to belong to you?'

'It belonged to me.' He laughed oddly, a tremulous little crow of a laugh,
at the same time stroking his head, as if to deprecate disbelief. 'You
never heard of the sale of the Christopherson library? To be sure, you were
too young; it was in 1860. I have often come across books with my name in
them on the stalls--often. I had happened to notice this just before you
came up, and when I saw you look at it, I was curious to see whether you
would buy it. Pray excuse the freedom I am taking. Lovers of books--don't
you think--?'

The broken question was completed by his look, and when I said that I quite
understood and agreed with him he crowed his little laugh.

'Have you a large library?' he inquired, eyeing me wistfully.

'Oh dear, no. Only a few hundred volumes. Too many for one who has no house
of his own.'

He smiled good-naturedly, bent his head, and murmured just audibly:

'My catalogue numbered 24,718.'

I was growing curious and interested. Venturing no more direct questions, I
asked whether, at the time he spoke of, he lived in London.

'If you have five minutes to spare,' was the timid reply, 'I will show you
my house. I mean'--again the little crowing laugh--'the house