When the door was finally opened, it was done quickly and was shut quickly, and the girl who had entered laughed breathlessly as she turned to him.

“Oh, you must forgive me—­I’ve kept you waiting?”

If their meeting had been in Sherwood forest, he would have known her at once for a good comrade; if he had met her in the Garden of Biaucaire, he would have known her at once for more than that.  But, being neither a hero of ballad nor of old romance, he knew only that here was a girl different from the silken ladies who had ascended the stairs.  Here was an air almost of frank boyishness, a smile of pleasant friendliness, with just enough of flushing cheek to show womanliness and warm blood.

Even her dress was different.  It was simple almost to the point of plainness.  Its charm lay in its glimmering glistening sheen, like the inside of a shell.  Its draperies were caught up to show slender feet in low-heeled slippers.  A quaint cap of silver tissue held closely the waves of thick fair hair.  Her eyes were like the sea in a storm—­deep gray with a glint of green.

These things did not come to him at once.  He was to observe them as she made her explanation, and as he followed her to the Tower Rooms.  But first he had to set himself straight with her, so he said:  “I was sorry to interrupt you.  But you said—­seven?”

“Yes.  It was the only time that the rooms could be seen.  My sister and I occupy them—­and Constance is to be married—­to-night.”

This, then, was the reason for the effulgence and the silken ladies.  It was the reason, too, for the loveliness of her dress.

“I am going to take you this way.”  She preceded him through a narrow passage to a flight of steps leading up into the darkness.  “These stairs are not often used, but we shall escape the crowds in the other hall.”

Her voice was lost as she made an abrupt turn, but, feeling his way, he followed her.

Up and up until they came to a third-floor landing, where she stopped him to say, “I must be sure no one is here.  Will you wait until I see?”

She came back, presently, to announce that the coast was clear, and thus they entered the room which had been enlarged and rounded out by the fourth tower.

It was a big room, ceiled and finished in dark oak, The furniture was roomy and comfortable and of worn red leather.  A strong square table held a copper lamp with a low spreading shade.  There was a fireplace, and on the mantel above it a bust or two.

But it was not these things which at once caught the attention of Roger Poole.

Lining the walls were old books in stout binding, new books in cloth and fine leather—­the poets, the philosophers, the seers of all ages.  As his eyes swept the shelves, he knew that here was the living, breathing collection of a true book-lover—­not a musty, fusty aggregation brought together through mere pride of intellect.  The owner of this library had counted the heart-beats of the world.