So speaking, the Stranger, with amazing speed, hurried Blinton back through Holywell Street, along the Strand, and up to Piccadilly, stopping at last at the door of Blinton’s famous and very expensive binder.
The binder opened his eyes, as well he might, at the vision of Blinton’s treasures. Then the miserable Blinton found himself, as it were automatically and without any exercise of his will, speaking thus:—
“Here are some things I have picked up,—extremely rare,—and you will oblige me by binding them in your best manner, regardless of expense. Morocco, of course; crushed levant morocco, doublé, every book of them, petits fers, my crest and coat of arms, plenty of gilding. Spare no cost. Don’t keep me waiting, as you generally do;” for indeed book-binders are the most dilatory of the human species.
Before the astonished binder could ask the most necessary questions, Blinton’s tormentor had hurried that amateur out of the room.
“Come on to the sale,” he cried.
“What sale?” said Blinton.
“Why, the Beckford sale; it is the thirteenth day, a lucky day.”
“But I have forgotten my catalogue.”
“Where is it?”
“In the third shelf from the top, on the right-hand side of the ebony book-case at home.”