“No thanks, as usual,” grumbled Mr. James as he returned to his gum and his scissors.  “Might as well have left him to snatch the book.”

Here, however, James was wrong, because it is the first duty of an assistant to hinder and obstruct the book-snatcher, who carries on his work by methods of crafty and fraudulent exchange rather than by plain theft, which is a mere brutal way.  For, first, the book-snatcher marks his prey; he finds the shop which has a set containing the volume which is missing in his own set; next, he arms himself with a volume which closely resembles the one he covets, and then, on pretense of turning over the leaves, he watches his opportunity to effect an exchange, and goes away rejoicing, his set complete.  No collector, as is very well known, whether of books, coins, pictures, medals, fans, scarabs, book-plates, autographs, stamps, or anything else, has any conscience at all.  Anybody can cut out slips and make a catalogue, but it requires a sharp assistant, with eyes all over his head like a spider, to be always on guard against this felonious and unscrupulous collector.

Next, there came two schoolboys together, who asked for and bought a crib to “Virgil;” and then a girl who wanted some cheap French reading-book.  Just as the clock began to strike five, Mr. Emblem lifted his head and looked up.  The shop-door opened, and there stepped in, rubbing his shoes on the mat as if he belonged to the house, an elderly gentleman of somewhat singular appearance.  He wore a fez cap, but was otherwise dressed as an Englishman—­in black frock coat, that is, buttoned up—­except that his feet were incased in black cloth shoes, so that he went noiselessly.  His hair was short and white, and he wore a small white beard; his skin was a rather dark brown; he was, in fact, a Hindoo, and his name was Lala Roy.

He nodded gravely to Mr. James and walked into the back shop.

“It goes well,” he asked, “with the buying and the selling?”

“Surely, Lala, surely.”

“A quiet way of buying and selling; a way fit for one who meditates,” said the Hindoo, looking round.  “Tell me, my friend, what ails the child?  Is she sick?”

“The child is well, Lala.”

“Her mind wandered this morning.  She failed to perceive a simple method which I tried to teach her.  I feared she might be ill.”

“She is not ill, my friend, but I think her mind is troubled.”

“She is a woman.  We are men.  There is nothing in the world that is able to trouble the mind of the philosopher.”

“Nothing,” said Mr. Emblem manfully, as if he, too, was a disciple.  “Nothing; is there now?”

The stoutness of the assertion was sensibly impaired by the question.

“Not poverty, which is a shadow; nor pain, which passes; nor the loss of woman’s love, which is a gain; nor fall from greatness—­nothing.  Nevertheless,” his eyes did look anxious in spite of his philosophy, “this trouble of the child—­will it soon be over?”