We returned to the sitting-room, Christopherson began picking out books from the solid mass to show me.  Talking nervously, brokenly, with now and then a deep sigh or a crow of laughter, he gave me a little light on his history.  I learnt that he had occupied these lodgings for the last eight years; that he had been twice married; that the only child he had had, a daughter by his first wife, had died long ago in childhood; and lastly—­this came in a burst of confidence, with a very pleasant smile—­that his second wife had been his daughter’s governess.  I listened with keen interest, and hoped to learn still more of the circumstances of this singular household.

‘In the country,’ I remarked, ‘you will no doubt have shelf room?’

At once his countenance fell; he turned upon me a woebegone eye.  Just as I was about to speak again sounds from within the house caught my attention; there was a heavy foot on the stairs, and a loud voice, which seemed familiar to me.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Christopherson with a start, ’here comes some one who is going to help me in the removal of the books.  Come in, Mr. Pomfret, come in!’

The door opened, and there appeared a tall, wiry fellow, whose sandy hair, light blue eyes, jutting jawbones, and large mouth made a picture suggestive of small refinement but of vigorous and wholesome manhood.  No wonder I had seemed to recognise his voice.  Though we only saw each other by chance at long intervals, Pomfret and I were old acquaintances.

‘Hallo!’ he roared out, ‘I didn’t know you knew Mr. Christopherson.’

‘I’m just as much surprised to find that you know him!’ was my reply.

The old book-lover gazed at us in nervous astonishment, then shook hands with the newcomer, who greeted him bluffly, yet respectfully.  Pomfret spoke with a strong Yorkshire accent, and had all the angularity of demeanour which marks the typical Yorkshireman.  He came to announce that everything had been settled for the packing and transporting of Mr. Christopherson’s library; it remained only to decide the day.

‘There’s no hurry,’ exclaimed Christopherson.  ’There’s really no hurry.  I’m greatly obliged to you, Mr. Pomfret, for all the trouble you are taking.  We’ll settle the date in a day or two—­a day or two.’

With a good-humoured nod Pomfret moved to take his leave.  Our eyes met; we left the house together.  Out in the street again I took a deep breath of the summer air, which seemed sweet as in a meadow after that stifling room.  My companion evidently had a like sensation, for he looked up to the sky and broadened out his shoulders.

‘Eh, but it’s a grand day!  I’d give something for a walk on Ilkley Moors.’

As the best substitute within our reach we agreed to walk across Regent’s Park together.  Pomfret’s business took him in that direction, and I was glad of a talk about Christopherson.  I learnt that the old book-lover’s landlady was Pomfret’s aunt.  Christopherson’s story of affluence and ruin was quite true.  Ruin complete, for at the age of forty he had been obliged to earn his living as a clerk or something of the kind.  About five years later came his second marriage.