“A staircase!” was the common ejaculation.

Bob pushed by the rest and ran up it, closely followed by all except Jarvis.  “I’ll stay on the outside of this fool lock!” he called.  But a moment later, investigating, he found that it could be rendered inoperative by a catch on the inside, which, being set, allowed the door to open and close freely.  So, after the others, he hurried up the stairs.

These ascended straight between the walls until a sharp curve at the top brought them to a door now wide open.  Within the room beyond stood the party, exclaiming at the tops of their voices.

They might well exclaim.  Of all the guesses, none had come within distant range of the real thing.

The room was that of a collector of old books, and it had been closed and left precisely as its former owner had arranged it, so far as could be judged by its present appearance.  A faded Turkey carpet covered the floor; sun-rotted and dusty draperies hung at the windows, which were of the same sort as those in the attic, close under the eaves, and shut in by a pattern of ironwork.  All around the walls stood bookcases, filled with a large collection of books, the greater proportion of them of an age suggestive, to the inexperienced eye, of worthlessness, to the more discerning, of value.  An antique desk and a few straight-backed chairs were all the other furnishings of the room, but of these it needed none.  Even in its dust-covered condition it was a room to command respectful consideration.

As Jarvis came in, Max was studying the rows of books.  He turned about with a small calf-bound volume in his hand, and his eye fell on Jarvis, entering.

“Jarve,” he exclaimed, “I believe this is treasure-trove, sure enough!  If this isn’t a ‘first edition,’ I’ll eat the book, covers and all!”

Jarvis hurried to his side.  He took the book, examined the fly-leaf, and turned its pages.  His eyes lighted with interest.  “Of course it is!” he declared.  “And by the looks of them, there are plenty more.  How on earth do they come to be here?  This is a gold mine that beats the mahogany sideboard out of sight.”

“It’s more than I know.  Uncle Maxwell was no book-lover, as far as I’ve ever heard.  Perhaps Uncle Tim can tell, though he’s on mother’s side, and never was here much.”

Bob’s eyes were round with delight.  He did not know much about books, but the flush on Sally’s cheeks and the excitement in Max’s voice were enough for him.  He could not resist giving his elder brother a rap on the back.

“How about the dead beetles now, Max?” he exulted.

Alec was poking in the pigeon-holes of the desk.  There were no papers to be found except one bundle of letters, yellow with age.  In one of the drawers, there were a few old daguerreo-types in velvet cases and a yellowed meer-schaum pipe.

“‘Eliphalet Lane, Esquire,’” read Sally, from the addresses on the letters, which were written on the folded outer sheet of the letters themselves.  “Why, I know who he was.  He was Uncle Maxwell’s elder brother.  He lived with them all his life.  He died before we were born, but I’ve heard father tell about him.  He was a queer old man when father was a boy.  This must be his collection.”