corner at the top; and there was an ink
stain on one of the end papers."

"There's still a stain there," said Aubrey, looking over his shoulder.

"Yes, but not the same stain. I've had that book long enough to know
it by heart. Now what the deuce would that lunatic want to have it
rebound for?"

"Goodness gracious," said Helen, "put it away and forget about it.
We'll all be dreaming about Carlyle if you're not careful."

Chapter V

Aubrey Walks Part Way Home--and Rides The Rest of the Way

It was a cold, clear night as Mr. Aubrey Gilbert left the Haunted
Bookshop that evening, and set out to walk homeward. Without making a
very conscious choice, he felt instinctively that it would be agreeable
to walk back to Manhattan rather than permit the roaring disillusion of
the subway to break in upon his meditations.

It is to be feared that Aubrey would have badly flunked any quizzing on
the chapters of Somebody's Luggage which the bookseller had read aloud.
His mind was swimming rapidly in the agreeable, unfettered fashion of a
stream rippling downhill. As O. Henry puts it in one of his most
delightful stories: "He was outwardly decent and managed to preserve
his aquarium, but inside he was impromptu and full of unexpectedness."
To say that he was thinking of Miss Chapman would imply too much power
of ratiocination and abstract scrutiny on his part. He was not
thinking: he was being thought. Down the accustomed channels of his
intellect he felt his mind ebbing with the irresistible movement of
tides drawn by the blandishing moon. And across these shimmering
estuaries of impulse his will, a lost and naked athlete, was painfully
attempting to swim, but making much leeway and already almost resigned
to being carried out to sea.

He stopped a moment at Weintraub's drug store, on the corner of Gissing
Street and Wordsworth Avenue, to buy some cigarettes, unfailing solace
of an agitated bosom.

It was the usual old-fashioned pharmacy of those parts of Brooklyn:
tall red, green, and blue vases of liquid in the windows threw blotches
of coloured light onto the pavement; on the panes was affixed white
china lettering: H. WE TRAUB, DEUT CHE APOTHEKER. Inside, the
customary shelves of labelled jars, glass cases holding cigars,
nostrums and toilet knick-knacks, and in one corner an ancient
revolving bookcase deposited long ago by the Tabard Inn Library. The
shop was empty, but as he opened the door a bell buzz