vol. 3—­166, 174, 210, 329, 349
  329 ff. cf.  W. W.

These references were written in black ink, in a small, neat hand.  Below them, in quite a different script and in pale violet ink, was written

153 (3) 1, 2

“I suppose these are page numbers,” Aubrey thought.  “I think I’d better have a look at that book.”

He put the cover in his pocket and went out for a bite of supper.  “It’s a puzzle with three sides to it,” he thought, as he descended the crepitant stairs, “The Bookshop, the Octagon, and Weintraub’s; but that book seems to be the clue to the whole business.”

Chapter VIII Aubrey Goes to the Movies, and Wishes he Knew More German

A few doors from the bookshop was a small lunchroom named after the great city of Milwaukee, one of those pleasant refectories where the diner buys his food at the counter and eats it sitting in a flat-armed chair.  Aubrey got a bowl of soup, a cup of coffee, beef stew, and bran muffins, and took them to an empty seat by the window.  He ate with one eye on the street.  From his place in the corner he could command the strip of pavement in front of Mifflin’s shop.  Halfway through the stew he saw Roger come out onto the pavement and begin to remove the books from the boxes.

After finishing his supper he lit one of his “mild but they satisfy” cigarettes and sat in the comfortable warmth of a near-by radiator.  A large black cat lay sprawled on the next chair.  Up at the service counter there was a pleasant clank of stout crockery as occasional customers came in and ordered their victuals.  Aubrey began to feel a relaxation swim through his veins.  Gissing Street was very bright and orderly in its Saturday evening bustle.  Certainly it was grotesque to imagine melodrama hanging about a second-hand bookshop in Brooklyn.  The revolver felt absurdly lumpy and uncomfortable in his hip pocket.  What a different aspect a little hot supper gives to affairs!  The most resolute idealist or assassin had better write his poems or plan his atrocities before the evening meal.  After the narcosis of that repast the spirit falls into a softer mood, eager only to be amused.  Even Milton would hardly have had the inhuman fortitude to sit down to the manuscript of Paradise Lost right after supper.  Aubrey began to wonder if his unpleasant suspicions had not been overdrawn.  He thought how delightful it would be to stop in at the bookshop and ask Titania to go to the movies with him.

Curious magic of thought!  The idea was still sparkling in his mind when he saw Titania and Mrs. Mifflin emerge from the bookshop and pass briskly in front of the lunchroom.  They were talking and laughing merrily.  Titania’s face, shining with young vitality, seemed to him more “attention-compelling” than any ten-point Caslon type-arrangement he had ever seen.  He admired the layout of her face