So it came about that, pausing for a few moments at the window before doing so, she heard the click of the gate and saw the old postman coming up the path.

He moved slowly and with some difficulty, being heavily laden as well as bowed with age and rheumatism.  She went quickly to the outer door, and, accompanied by the growling Columbus, moved to meet him.

“Evening, ma’am!  Here’s a parcel for you!” the old man said.  “It’s books, and it’s all come to bits, but I don’t think as I’ve dropped any of ’em.  You’d best let me bring ’em straight in for I’m all fixed up with ’em now, and they’ll only scatter if you tries to take ’em.”

She led the way within, commiserating him on the weight of his burden which he thumped down without ceremony on the white cloth that she had just spread.  The parcel was certainly badly damaged, and books in white covers began to slide out of it the moment they were released.

“I’ll leave you to sort ’em, ma’am,” he said airily.  “Daresay as they’re not much the worse.  Schoolmaster’s truck I’ve no doubt.  If there was fewer books in the world, the postman would have an easier life than what he does and no one much worse off than they be now—­except the clever folks as writes ’em!  Well, I’ll be getting along to the Court, ma’am, and I wish you a very good-night.”

He stumped away, and in the failing evening light Juliet began to gather up the confusion he had left behind.  She found it was not a collection of paper-backed school-books as she had at first imagined, and since the contents of the parcel were very thoroughly scattered she glanced at them with idle curiosity as she laid them together.

Then with a sudden violent start she picked up one of the volumes and looked at it closely.  The title stood out with arresting clearness on the white paper jacket:  Gold of the Desert by Dene Strange.  Author of The Valley of Dry Bones, Marionettes, etc.

She caught her breath.  Something sprang up within her—­something that clamoured grotesque and incoherent things.  Her heart was beating so fast that it seemed continuous like the dull roar of the sea.  The volumes were all alike—­all copies of one book.

A sheet of paper fluttered from the one she held.  She snatched at it with a curious desperation—­as though, sinking in deep waters, she clutched at a straw.

Author’s Copies—­With Compliments, were the words that stood out before her widening gaze.  She remained as one transfixed, staring at them.  It was as if a thunderbolt had fallen in the quiet room....

It must have been many minutes later that she came to herself and found herself huddled in a chair by the table, shivering from head to foot.  She was conscious of a horrible feeling of sickness, and her heart was beating slowly, with thick, uneven strokes.

The room was growing dark.  The chill desolation of the world outside seemed to have followed her in.  She could not remember that she had ever felt so deadly cold before.  She could not keep her teeth from chattering.