ed by
rapid steps in the direction unfavourable to Rickman. Rickman had
driven a clever bargain over that Florio Montaigne; Rickman had
cheated him, yes, cheated him infamously, over that Florio Montaigne.
You could see a great deal through a very small hole, and a man who
would cheat you over a Florio Montaigne would cheat you over a whole
library if he got the chance. Not that there was any cheating in the
second-hand book-trade; it was each man for himself and the Lord for
us all.

The question was, what was young Rickman driving at? And what was he,
Jewdwine, being let in for now? He found himself unable to accept
Rickman's alleged motive in all its grand simplicity. It was too
simple and too grand to be entirely probable. If young Rickman was not
infallible, he was an expert in his trade. He was not likely to be
grossly mistaken in his valuation. If the Harden library would be
worth four or five thousand pounds to Jewdwine it would be worth as
much or more to Rickman's. Young Rickman being merely old Rickman's
assistant, he could hardly be acting without his father's knowledge.
If young Rickman honestly thought that the library was worth that sum,
it was not likely that they would let the prize slip out of their
hands. The thing was not in human nature.

The more he thought of it the more he was convinced that it was a
put-up job. He strongly suspected that young Rickman, in the rashness
of his youth, had proceeded farther than he cared to own, that
Rickman's found themselves let in for a bad bargain, and were anxious
to get out of it. Young Rickman had no doubt discovered that the great
Harden library was not the prize they had always imagined it to be.
Jewdwine remembered that there was no record, no proper catalogue, or
if there ever had been, it had been mislaid or lost. He had a vision
(unconsciously exaggerated) of the inconceivable disorder of the place
when he had last visited it; and as he recalled those great gaps on
the shelves it struck him that the library had been gutted. His uncle
Frederick had not been altogether the fool he seemed to be; nothing
was more likely than that he knew perfectly well the value of the
volumes that were the unique glory of the collection, and had long ago
turned them into ready money. The rest would be comparatively
worthless.

He read Rickman's letter over again and had a moment of compunction.
It seemed a very simple and straightforward letter. But then, Rickman
was