There was a quick patter of feet, and Bock, growling, ran down the aisle.  In the same instant, Aubrey, obeying some unexplained impulse, gave Roger a violent push back into the Fiction alcove, seized Titania roughly in his arms, and ran with her toward the back of the shop.

Metzger’s arm was raised, about to throw the book, when Bock darted at him and buried his teeth in the man’s leg.  The Cromwell fell from his hand.

There was a shattering explosion, a dull roar, and for an instant Aubrey thought the whole bookshop had turned into a vast spinning top.  The floor rocked and sagged, shelves of books were hurled in every direction.  Carrying Titania, he had just reached the steps leading to the domestic quarters when they were flung sideways into the corner behind Roger’s desk.  The air was full of flying books.  A row of encyclopedias crashed down upon his shoulders, narrowly missing Titania’s head.  The front windows were shivered into flying streamers of broken glass.  The table near the door was hurled into the opposite gallery.  With a splintering crash the corner of the gallery above the History alcove collapsed, and hundreds of volumes cascaded heavily on to the floor.  The lights went out, and for an instant all was silence.

“Are you all right?” said Aubrey hastily.  He and Titania had fallen sprawling against the bookseller’s desk.

“I think so,” she said faintly.  “Where’s Mr. Mifflin?”

Aubrey put out his hand to help her, and touched something wet on the floor.  “Good heavens,” he thought.  “She’s dying!” He struggled to his feet in the darkness.  “Hullo, Mr. Mifflin,” he called, “where are you?”

There was no answer.

A beam of light gushed out from the passageway behind the shop, and picking his way over fallen litter he found Mrs. Mifflin standing dazed by the dining-room door.  In the back of the house the lights were still burning.

“For heaven’s sake, have you a candle?” he said.

“Where’s Roger?” she cried piteously, and stumbled into the kitchen.

With a candle Aubrey found Titania sitting on the floor, very faint, but unhurt.  What he had thought was blood proved to be a pool of ink from a quart bottle that had stood over Roger’s desk.  He picked her up like a child and carried her into the kitchen.  “Stay here and don’t stir,” he said.

By this time a crowd was already gathering on the pavement.  Someone came in with a lantern.  Three policemen appeared at the door.

“For God’s sake,” cried Aubrey, “get a light in here so we can see what’s happened.  Mifflin’s buried in this mess somewhere.  Someone ring for an ambulance.”

The whole front of the Haunted Bookshop was a wreck.  In the pale glimmer of the lantern it was a disastrous sight.  Helen groped her way down the shattered aisle.

“Where was he?” she cried wildly.

“Thanks to that set of Trollope,” said a voice in the remains of the Fiction alcove, “I think I’m all right.  Books make good shock-absorbers.  Is any one hurt?”