“We ain’t sure it’s an island, sir,” put in Tilda, plucking up her courage a little.

“It will be in the Gazetteer, of course,” said the old chemist with a happy thought; “and you’ll find that in the Free Library.”

“Gazetteer”—­“Free Library.”  To Tilda these were strange words—­names of wide oceans, perhaps, or of far foreign countries.  But the boy caught at the last word:  he remembered Prospero’s—­

     “Me, poor man, my library
   Was dukedom large enough,”

And this made him more confident than ever.

“But why do you want to know?” the old chemist went on.  “Is it home lessons?”

“’E,” said Tilda, indicating Arthur Miles, “’e wants to find a relation ’e’s got there—­a kind of uncle—­in ’Olmness, w’ich is in the Gazetteer,” she repeated, as though the scent lay hidden in a nest of boxes, “’w’ich is in the Free Library.”

“If you don’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll take you there.”

The children gasped.

He turned and trotted around the back of his mirrored screen.  They heard him call and announce to someone in the back parlour—­but the boy made sure that it was to Miranda in her inner cave—­that he was going out for a few minutes; and by and by he reappeared, wearing a dark skull-cap, with an Inverness cape about his shoulders, and carrying in his hand a stout staff.  He joined them by lifting—­another marvel—­a mahogany flap and walking straight through the counter! and so led the way out of the shop and up the street to the right, while the children in delicious terror trotted at his heels.

They came to an open doorway, with a lamp burning above it.  Dark wavering shadows played within, across the threshold; but the old man stepped through these boldly, and pushed open the door of a lighted room.  The children followed, and stood for a moment blinking.

The room was lined with books—­shelves upon shelves of books; and among their books a dozen men sat reading in total silence.  Some held thin, unbound pages of enormous size—­Arthur Miles was unacquainted with newspapers—­open before them; all were of middle age or over; and none of them showed surprise at the new-comers.  The old chemist nodded to one or two, who barely returned his nod and forthwith resumed their studies.

He walked straight across the room—­this was wonderful too, that he should know, among so many books, exactly where to search—­adjusted his spectacles, stooped with palms on knees, peered for ten seconds or so along the backs of a row of tall volumes, drew forth one, and bearing it to the table, laid it open under the lamplight.

“Let me see—­let me see,” he muttered, turning the pages rapidly.  “H—­H.O.—­here we are!  Hockley—­Hoe—­no.”  He turned another three or four pages.  “Holbeach—­Hollington—­Hollingwood—­Holme—­ah, here we have it!—­Holmfirth, Holme Fell, Holme Moss, HOLMNESS.”

He paused for a moment, scanning the page while they held their breath.  Then he read aloud, yet not so as to disturb the other students—­