The others were evidently impressed by this bold though desperate policy.  Maddox himself was inclined to think that it had saved the situation, but he was anxious to make sure.  Edging his chair by slow degrees, he turned discreetly round.  With the tail of his eye he could see “the man himself” standing at the far end of the room.  He saw too that his own effort, though supreme, had been unavailing.  It had deceived no one, least of all S.K.R.  “The man himself” stood on the very hearth of the club, with his back to the fireplace.  It was the attitude of mastery, a mastery the more superb because unconscious.  His eyes too, were the eyes of a master, twinkling a little as to their light, but steady as to their direction, being fixed on Maddox.  He was smiling.

There was nothing malignant, or bitter, or sardonic about that smile.  No devilry of delight at their confusion.  No base abandonment of the whole countenance to mirth, but a curious one-sided smile, implying delicacies, reservations.  A slow smile, reminiscent, ruminant, appreciative; it expressed (if so subtle and refined a thing could be said to express anything) a certain exquisite enjoyment of the phrases in which they had defined him.

And seeing it, Maddox said to himself, “He isn’t a gentleman.  He’s something more.”

In that moment the Celtic soul of Maddox had recognized its master, and had sworn to him unhesitating allegiance.

CHAPTER VI

It was not until Rankin and the others had left the room that Jewdwine had courage to raise his head tentatively.  He had only seen that young man’s back, and he still clung to the hope that it might not be Rickman’s, after all.

He looked up as steadily as he dared.  Oh, no doubt that it was Rickman’s back; no doubt, too, that it was his, Jewdwine’s, duty to go up and speak to him.  The young man had changed his place; he was at his window again, contemplating—­as Jewdwine reflected with a pang of sympathy—­the shop.  So profound, so sacred almost, was his absorption that Jewdwine hesitated in his approach.

“Is it Rickman?” he asked, still tentative.

“Mr. Jewdwine!” Rickman’s soul leapt to Jewdwine’s from the depths; but the “Mister” marked the space it had had to travel.  “When did you come up?”

“Three hours ago.” ("He looks innocent,” said Jewdwine to himself.)

“Then you weren’t prepared for that?”

Jewdwine followed his fascinated gaze.  He smiled faintly.

“You haven’t noticed our new departure?  We not only purchase Gentlemen’s Libraries, but we sell the works of persons who may or may not be gentlemen.”

Jewdwine felt profoundly uncomfortable.  Rickman’s face preserved its inimitable innocence, but he continued to stare fixedly before him.