"Have you got any of Philip Wriford's books in the library?" Mr. Wriford asked her.
"We've got several copies," he was told. "But they're all out. There's a great demand for them."
His eye caught the top volume of a pile of books on the counter, from each of which a ticket was displayed, and he motioned towards it.
"Yes, that's his last," the young woman said, "but it's ordered. It's going out to-morrow."
"I can look at it?"
"Oh, you can look at it. If you like to take out a subscription by the week or longer, you can put your name down for it. There's other copies out," and she moved away.
Mr. Wriford took up the book with something of a thrill—the first actively stirring thought of his work since he had fled from it. It was the book he had delivered to his agent shortly before that night of his escape, and had seen ecstatically reviewed in the paper at Pendra. He had never seen it in print. He opened it at the title page. "Twelfth Edition," he read aloud to Essie. "You know what that means. It was only published in the autumn."
"How do you know?" said Essie.
"I tell you I wrote it. I tell you I'm Philip Wriford."
The young woman's departure permitted Essie to relieve her laughter. "Oh, Arthur, do not!" she cried.