II

Eustace Borlsover was in Naples at the time.  He read the obituary notice in the Morning Post on the day announced for the funeral.

“Poor old fellow!” he said.  “I wonder where I shall find room for all his books.”

The question occurred to him again with greater force when three days later he found himself standing in the library at Borlsover Conyers, a huge room built for use, and not for beauty, in the year of Waterloo by a Borlsover who was an ardent admirer of the great Napoleon.  It was arranged on the plan of many college libraries, with tall, projecting bookcases forming deep recesses of dusty silence, fit graves for the old hates of forgotten controversy, the dead passions of forgotten lives.  At the end of the room, behind the bust of some unknown eighteenth-century divine, an ugly iron corkscrew stair led to a shelf-lined gallery.  Nearly every shelf was full.

“I must talk to Saunders about it,” said Eustace.  “I suppose that it will be necessary to have the billiard-room fitted up with book cases.”

The two men met for the first time after many weeks in the dining-room that evening.

“Hullo!” said Eustace, standing before the fire with his hands in his pockets.  “How goes the world, Saunders?  Why these dress togs?” He himself was wearing an old shooting-jacket.  He did not believe in mourning, as he had told his uncle on his last visit; and though he usually went in for quiet-colored ties, he wore this evening one of an ugly red, in order to shock Morton the butler, and to make them thrash out the whole question of mourning for themselves in the servants’ hall.  Eustace was a true Borlsover.  “The world,” said Saunders, “goes the same as usual, confoundedly slow.  The dress togs are accounted for by an invitation from Captain Lockwood to bridge.”

“How are you getting there?”

“I’ve told your coachman to drive me in your carriage.  Any objection?”

“Oh, dear me, no!  We’ve had all things in common for far too many years for me to raise objections at this hour of the day.”

“You’ll find your correspondence in the library,” went on Saunders.  “Most of it I’ve seen to.  There are a few private letters I haven’t opened.  There’s also a box with a rat, or something, inside it that came by the evening post.  Very likely it’s the six-toed albino.  I didn’t look, because I didn’t want to mess up my things but I should gather from the way it’s jumping about that it’s pretty hungry.”

“Oh, I’ll see to it,” said Eustace, “while you and the Captain earn an honest penny.”

Dinner over and Saunders gone, Eustace went into the library.  Though the fire had been lit the room was by no means cheerful.

“We’ll have all the lights on at any rate,” he said, as he turned the switches.  “And, Morton,” he added, when the butler brought the coffee, “get me a screwdriver or something to undo this box.  Whatever the animal is, he’s kicking up the deuce of a row.  What is it?  Why are you dawdling?”