re."

"Poor gentleman," said the housekeeper, gravely, "there seems to be some
strange hallucination in his brain."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE BOOKWORM TRIES TO BORE.

As it happened, Chester was musing as he went down the steps.

"They treat me as if I were mad. Have I got some strange notion in my
head? No woman could possibly meet one with such a--Ah! good-day!" he
cried quickly, for, as he was passing the next door, the grey,
dreamy-looking old occupant was in the act of inserting the latch-key.

He turned slowly, pushed back his rather broad-brimmed hat, and blinked
at the speaker through his spectacles.

"I beg your pardon," he said, rather wonderingly; "I--can't see; yes, to
be sure, I remember now;" and the old man's face lit up. "I remember
now. My young friend who was making inquiries. Will you step in, sir?
I do not have many visitors."

He threw open the door and stood smiling holding it back, giving Chester
a smile of invitation which made him enter--that, in combination with
the sudden thought that he might perhaps learn something about the
next-door neighbours.

"Really," he said frankly, "as a perfect stranger, this is somewhat of
an intrusion."

"Not at all, my dear young friend, not at all. Glad to see you. I lead
such an old-world, lost kind of life. I am very glad to have a caller.
Come in, my dear young friend, come in. No, no; don't set your hat down
there; it will be covered with dust. Let me put it here. Now, then,
come in."

He led the way into the room on their left, and took a couple of very
old folios off a chair.

"A dusty place--a very dusty place; but I dare not trust servants. They
have no idea of the value of books, my dear sir. I found one had torn
out some pages from a very rare specimen of Wynkyn de Worde to burn
under some damp fire-wood. Can't trust them--can't trust them. I've
just had a very serious disappointment. Been down to an auction."

"Indeed?" said Chester, looking at the old man curiously and wondering
where he had seen a face something like his before.

"Yes. One of the big sales. There was a priceless copy of one of Marie
de Medici's books in the list, and I fancy it was with a Grolier
binding--just his style; but two other people wanted it. I bid up to
four hundred and then stopped. A bit of a bibliomaniac, my dear sir,
but not book-mad enough to go higher; couldn't afford it, even for a
unique, tall copy. Knocked down for se-ven