“Oh, dear, dear!” replied the bookseller.  “This is very sad.  One cannot bear to think of the libraries being dispersed and sold off.  And now yours, Mr. Farrar?  Really, yours?  Must it be?”

“‘Needs must,’” Mr. Farrar said with a sickly smile, “needs must when the devil drives.  I have parted with half my books already.  But I thought you might like to have this set, because they were once your own.”

“So I should”—­Mr. Emblem laid a loving hand upon the volumes—­“so I should, Mr. Farrar, but not from you; not from you, sir.  Why, you were almost my best customer—­I think almost my very best—­thirty years ago, when my trade was better than it is now.  Yes, you gave me five pounds—­or was it five pounds ten?—­for this very work.  And it is worth twelve pounds now—­I assure you it is worth twelve pounds, if it is worth a penny.”

“Will you give me ten pounds for it, then?” cried the other eagerly; “I want the money badly.”

“No, I can’t; but I will send you to a man who can and will.  I do not speculate now; I never go to auctions.  I am old, you see.  Besides, I am poor.  I will not buy your book, but I will send you to a man who will give you ten pounds for it, I am sure, and then he will sell it for fifteen.”  He wrote the address on a slip of paper.  “Why, Mr. Farrar, if an old friend, so to speak, can put the question, why in the world—­”

“The most natural thing,” replied Mr. Farrar with a cold laugh; “I am old, as I told you, and the younger men get all the work.  That is all.  Nobody wants a genealogist and antiquary.”

“Dear me, dear me!  Why, Mr. Farrar, I remember now; you used to know my poor son-in-law, who is dead eighteen years since.  I was just reading the last letter he ever wrote to me, just before he died.  You used to come here and sit with him in the evening.  I remember now.  So you did.”

“Thank you for your good will,” said Mr. Farrar.  “Yes, I remember your son-in-law.  I knew him before his marriage.”

“Did you?  Before his marriage?  Then—­” He was going to add, “Then you can tell me his real name,” but he paused, because it is a pity ever to acknowledge ignorance, and especially ignorance in such elementary matters as your son-in-law’s name.

So Mr. Emblem checked himself.

“He ought to have been a rich man,” Mr. Farrar continued; “but he quarreled with his father, who cut him off with a shilling, I suppose.”

Then the poor scholar, who could find no market for his learned papers, tied up his books again and went away with hanging head.

“Ugh!” Mr. James, who had been listening, groaned as Mr. Farrar passed through the door.  “Ugh!  Call that a way of doing business?  Why, if it had been me, I’d have bought the book off of that old chap for a couple o’ pounds, I would.  Ay, or a sov, so seedy he is, and wants money so bad.  And I know who’d have given twelve pound for it, in the trade too.  Call that carrying on business?  He may well add up his investments every day, it he can afford to chuck such chances.  Ah, but he’ll retire soon.”  His fiery eyes brightened, and his face glowed with the joy of anticipation.  “He must retire before long.”