“And now for the last,” he said.

Once more I was right.

“There is your guinea,” said he, a little mortified.

“No,” I answered.  “I do not feel at liberty to take it, because, to tell the truth, the last was a mere guess, nothing more.”

Mr Stoddart looked relieved.

“You are more honest than most of your profession,” he said.  “But I am far more pleased to offer you the guinea upon the smallest doubt of your having won it.”

“I have no claim upon it.”

“What!  Couldn’t you swallow a small scruple like that for the sake of the poor even?  Well, I don’t believe you could.—­Oblige me by taking this guinea for some one or other of your poor people.  But I am glad you weren’t sure of that last book.  I am indeed.”

I took the guinea, and put it in my purse.

“But,” he resumed, “you won’t do, Mr Walton.  You’re not fit for your profession.  You won’t tell a lie for God’s sake.  You won’t dodge about a little to keep all right between Jove and his weary parishioners.  You won’t cheat a little for the sake of the poor!  You wouldn’t even bamboozle a little at a bazaar!”

“I should not like to boast of my principles,” I answered; “for the moment one does so, they become as the apples of Sodom.  But assuredly I would not favour a fiction to keep a world out of hell.  The hell that a lie would keep any man out of is doubtless the very best place for him to go to.  It is truth, yes, The Truth that saves the world.”

“You are right, I daresay.  You are more sure about it than I am though.”

“Let us agree where we can,” I said, “first of all; and that will make us able to disagree, where we must, without quarrelling.”

“Good,” he said—­“Would you like to see my work shop?”

“Very much, indeed,” I answered, heartily.

“Do you take any pleasure in applied mechanics?”

“I used to do so as a boy.  But of course I have little time now for anything of the sort.”

“Ah! of course.”

He pushed a compartment of books.  It yielded, and we entered a small closet.  In another moment I found myself leaving the floor, and in yet a moment we were on the floor of an upper room.

“What a nice way of getting up-stairs!” I said.

“There is no other way of getting to this room,” answered Mr Stoddart.  “I built it myself; and there was no room for stairs.  This is my shop.  In my library I only read my favourite books.  Here I read anything I want to read; write anything I want to write; bind my books; invent machines; and amuse myself generally.  Take a chair.”

I obeyed, and began to look about me.

The room had many books in detached book-cases.  There were various benches against the walls between,—­one a bookbinder’s; another a carpenter’s; a third had a turning-lathe; a fourth had an iron vice fixed on it, and was evidently used for working in metal.  Besides these, for it was a large room, there were several tables with chemical apparatus upon them, Florence-flasks, retorts, sand-baths, and such like; while in a corner stood a furnace.