“How does Mr Stoddart reach those books?” I asked my conductor.

“I don’t exactly know, sir,” whispered the butler.  “His own man could tell you, I dare say.  But he has a holiday to-day; and I do not think he would explain it either; for he says his master allows no interference with his contrivances.  I believe, however, he does not use a ladder.”

There was no one in the room, and I saw no entrance but that by which we had entered.  The next moment, however, a nest of shelves revolved in front of me, and there Mr Stoddart stood with outstretched hand.

“You have found me at last, Mr Walton, and I am glad to see you,” he said.

He led me into an inner room, much larger than the one I had passed through.

“I am glad,” I replied, “that I did not know, till the butler told me, your unwillingness to be intruded upon; for I fear, had I known it, I should have been yet longer a stranger to you.”

“You are no stranger to me.  I have heard you read prayers, and I have heard you preach.”

“And I have heard you play; so you are no stranger to me either.”

“Well, before we say another word,” said Mr Stoddart, “I must just say one word about this report of my unsociable disposition.—­I encourage it; but am very glad to see you, notwithstanding.—­Do sit down.”

I obeyed, and waited for the rest of his word.

“I was so bored with visits after I came, visits which were to me utterly uninteresting, that I was only too glad when the unusual nature of some of my pursuits gave rise to the rumour that I was mad.  The more people say I am mad, the better pleased I am, so long as they are satisfied with my own mode of shutting myself up, and do not attempt to carry out any fancies of their own in regard to my personal freedom.”

Upon this followed some desultory conversation, during which I took some observations of the room.  Like the outer room, it was full of books from floor to ceiling.  But the ceiling was divided into compartments, harmoniously coloured.

“What a number of books you have!” I observed.

“Not a great many,” he answered.  “But I think there is hardly one of them with which I have not some kind of personal acquaintance.  I think I could almost find you any one you wanted in the dark, or in the twilight at least, which would allow me to distinguish whether the top edge was gilt, red, marbled, or uncut.  I have bound a couple of hundred or so of them myself.  I don’t think you could tell the work from a tradesman’s.  I’ll give you a guinea for the poor-box if you pick out three of my binding consecutively.”

I accepted the challenge; for although I could not bind a book, I considered myself to have a keen eye for the outside finish.  After looking over the backs of a great many, I took one down, examined a little further, and presented it.

“You are right.  Now try again.”

Again I was successful, although I doubted.