in cheapening a book that it was hardly worth their while to sell it to him at double the price originally asked.  The idea that he had paid five shillings for a book that he should have got for four and six would keep Jewdwine awake at night.  And now his thought advanced by rapid steps in the direction unfavourable to Rickman.  Rickman had driven a clever bargain over that Florio Montaigne; Rickman had cheated him, yes, cheated him infamously, over that Florio Montaigne.  You could see a great deal through a very small hole, and a man who would cheat you over a Florio Montaigne would cheat you over a whole library if he got the chance.  Not that there was any cheating in the second-hand book-trade; it was each man for himself and the Lord for us all.

The question was, what was young Rickman driving at?  And what was he, Jewdwine, being let in for now?  He found himself unable to accept Rickman’s alleged motive in all its grand simplicity.  It was too simple and too grand to be entirely probable.  If young Rickman was not infallible, he was an expert in his trade.  He was not likely to be grossly mistaken in his valuation.  If the Harden library would be worth four or five thousand pounds to Jewdwine it would be worth as much or more to Rickman’s.  Young Rickman being merely old Rickman’s assistant, he could hardly be acting without his father’s knowledge.  If young Rickman honestly thought that the library was worth that sum, it was not likely that they would let the prize slip out of their hands.  The thing was not in human nature.

The more he thought of it the more he was convinced that it was a put-up job.  He strongly suspected that young Rickman, in the rashness of his youth, had proceeded farther than he cared to own, that Rickman’s found themselves let in for a bad bargain, and were anxious to get out of it.  Young Rickman had no doubt discovered that the great Harden library was not the prize they had always imagined it to be.  Jewdwine remembered that there was no record, no proper catalogue, or if there ever had been, it had been mislaid or lost.  He had a vision (unconsciously exaggerated) of the inconceivable disorder of the place when he had last visited it; and as he recalled those great gaps on the shelves it struck him that the library had been gutted.  His uncle Frederick had not been altogether the fool he seemed to be; nothing was more likely than that he knew perfectly well the value of the volumes that were the unique glory of the collection, and had long ago turned them into ready money.  The rest would be comparatively worthless.

He read Rickman’s letter over again and had a moment of compunction.  It seemed a very simple and straightforward letter.  But then, Rickman was a very clever fellow, he had the gift of expression; and there was that Florio Montaigne.  He wouldn’t have suspected him if only his record had been pure.

So instead of committing himself by writing to Rickman, he had sent his solicitor down to look into these matters.  A day or two later, in reply to his further inquiries his solicitor assured him that there could be no doubt that the library was intact.