’Oh dear, no.  Only a few hundred volumes.  Too many for one who has no house of his own.’

He smiled good-naturedly, bent his head, and murmured just audibly: 

‘My catalogue numbered 24,718.’

I was growing curious and interested.  Venturing no more direct questions, I asked whether, at the time he spoke of, he lived in London.

‘If you have five minutes to spare,’ was the timid reply, ’I will show you my house.  I mean’—­again the little crowing laugh—­’the house which was mine.’

Willingly I walked on with him.  He led me a short distance up the road skirting Regent’s Park, and paused at length before a house in an imposing terrace.

‘There,’ he whispered, ’I used to live.  The window to the right of the door—­that was my library.  Ah!’

And he heaved a deep sigh.

‘A misfortune befell you,’ I said, also in a subdued voice.

’The result of my own folly.  I had enough for my needs, but thought I needed more.  I let myself be drawn into business—­I, who knew nothing of such things—­and there came the black day—­the black day.’

We turned to retrace our steps, and walking slowly, with heads bent, came in silence again to the church.

‘I wonder whether you have bought any other of my books?’ asked Christopherson, with his gentle smile, when we had paused as if for leave-taking.

I replied that I did not remember to have come across his name before; then, on an impulse, asked whether he would care to have the book I carried in my hand; if so, with pleasure I would give it him.  No sooner were the words spoken than I saw the delight they caused the hearer.  He hesitated, murmured reluctance, but soon gratefully accepted my offer, and flushed with joy as he took the volume.

‘I still have a few books,’ he said, under his breath, as if he spoke of something he was ashamed to make known.  ’But it is very rarely indeed that I can add to them.  I feel I have not thanked you half enough.’

We shook hands and parted.

My lodging at that time was in Camden Town.  One afternoon, perhaps a fortnight later, I had walked for an hour or two, and on my way back I stopped at a bookstall in the High Street.  Some one came up to my side; I looked, and recognised Christopherson.  Our greeting was like that of old friends.

‘I have seen you several times lately,’ said the broken gentleman, who looked shabbier than before in the broad daylight, ’but I—­I didn’t like to speak.  I live not far from here.’

‘Why, so do I,’ and I added, without much thinking what I said, ’do you live alone?’

‘Alone? oh no.  With my wife.’

There was a curious embarrassment in his tone.  His eyes were cast down and his head moved uneasily.

We began to talk of the books on the stall, and turning away together continued our conversation.  Christopherson was not only a well-bred but a very intelligent and even learned man.  On his giving some proof of erudition (with the excessive modesty which characterised him), I asked whether he wrote.  No, he had never written anything—­never; he was only a bookworm, he said.  Thereupon he crowed faintly and took his leave.