ne wall a door, ingeniously upholstered with rows
of dummy books, gave access to a deep cupboard, where, among a pile of
letter-files and old newspapers, the mummy-case of an Egyptian lady,
brought back by the second Sir Ferdinando on his return from the Grand
Tour, mouldered in the darkness. From ten yards away and at a first
glance, one might almost have mistaken this secret door for a section of
shelving filled with genuine books. Coffee-cup in hand, Mr. Scogan
was standing in front of the dummy book-shelf. Between the sips he
discoursed.

"The bottom shelf," he was saying, "is taken up by an Encyclopaedia in
fourteen volumes. Useful, but a little dull, as is also Caprimulge's
'Dictionary of the Finnish Language'. The 'Biographical Dictionary'
looks more promising. 'Biography of Men who were Born Great', 'Biography
of Men who Achieved Greatness', 'Biography of Men who had Greatness
Thrust upon Them', and 'Biography of Men who were Never Great at All'.
Then there are ten volumes of 'Thom's Works and Wanderings', while the
'Wild Goose Chase, a Novel', by an anonymous author, fills no less
than six. But what's this, what's this?" Mr. Scogan stood on tiptoe and
peered up. "Seven volumes of the 'Tales of Knockespotch'. The 'Tales
of Knockespotch'," he repeated. "Ah, my dear Henry," he said, turning
round, "these are your best books. I would willingly give all the rest
of your library for them."

The happy possessor of a multitude of first editions, Mr. Wimbush could
afford to smile indulgently.

"Is it possible," Mr. Scogan went on, "that they possess nothing more
than a back and a title?" He opened the cupboard door and peeped inside,
as though he hoped to find the rest of the books behind it. "Phooh!"
he said, and shut the door again. "It smells of dust and mildew. How
symbolical! One comes to the great masterpieces of the past, expecting
some miraculous illumination, and one finds, on opening them, only
darkness and dust and a faint smell of decay. After all, what is
reading but a vice, like drink or venery or any other form of excessive
self-indulgence? One reads to tickle and amuse one's mind; one
reads, above all, to prevent oneself thinking. Still--the 'Tales of
Knockespotch'..."

He paused, and thoughtfully drummed with his fingers on the backs of the
non-existent, unattainable books.

"But I disagree with you about reading," said Mary. "About serious
reading, I mean."

"Quite right, Mary, quite right," Mr