Meanwhile Roger, with the pleasurable sensation of one who expects to be received as a distinguished visitor from out of town, had entered the luxurious suite of Mr. Oldham.  A young lady, rather too transparently shirtwaisted but fair to look upon, asked what she could do for him.

“I want to see Mr. Oldham.”

“What name shall I say?”

“Mr. Mifflin—­Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn.”

“Have you an appointment?”

“Yes.”

Roger sat down with agreeable anticipation.  He noticed the shining mahogany of the office furniture, the sparkling green jar of drinking water, the hushed and efficient activity of the young ladies.  “Philadelphia girls are amazingly comely,” he said to himself, “but none of these can hold a candle to Miss Titania.”

The young lady returned from the private office looking a little perplexed.

“Did you have an appointment with Mr. Oldham?” she said. 
“He doesn’t seem to recall it.”

“Why, certainly,” said Roger.  “It was arranged by telephone on Saturday afternoon.  Mr. Oldham’s secretary called me up.”

“Have I got your name right?” she asked, showing a slip on which she had written Mr. Miflin.

“Two f’s,” said Roger.  “Mr. Roger Mifflin, the bookseller.”

The girl retired, and came back a moment later.

“Mr. Oldham’s very busy,” she said, “but he can see you for a moment.”

Roger was ushered into the private office, a large, airy room lined with bookshelves.  Mr. Oldham, a tall, thin man with short gray hair and lively black eyes, rose courteously from his desk.

“How do you do, sir,” he said.  “I’m sorry, I had forgotten our appointment.”

“He must be very absent minded,” thought Roger.  “Arranges to sell a collection worth half a million, and forgets all about it.”

“I came over in response to your message,” he said.  “About selling your collection.”

Mr. Oldham looked at him, rather intently, Roger thought.

“Do you want to buy it?” he said.

“To buy it?” said Roger, a little peevishly.  “Why, no.  I came over to appraise it for you.  Your secretary telephoned me on Saturday.”

“My dear sir,” replied the other, “there must be some mistake.  I have no intention of selling my collection.  I never sent you a message.”

Roger was aghast.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “your secretary called me up on Saturday and said you particularly wanted me to come over this morning, to examine your books with you.  I’ve made the trip from Brooklyn for that purpose.”

Mr. Oldham touched a buzzer, and a middle-aged woman came into the office.  “Miss Patterson,” he said, “did you telephone to Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn on Saturday, asking him——­”

“It was a man that telephoned,” said Roger.

“I’m exceedingly sorry, Mr. Mifflin,” said Mr. Oldham.  “More sorry than I can tell you—­I’m afraid someone has played a trick on you.  As I told you, and Miss Patterson will bear me out, I have no idea of selling my books, and have never authorized any one even to suggest such a thing.”