“The motive, of course,” said Dulcet, “was to profit by the increase of value Digby's death would give to his literary work. You will see a proof of that in a moment. Here we are. Come on, this is no time to hang back!”
He strode into the brightly lighted shop, and I followed with a clumsy assumption of carelessness. I must confess that my eye wandered in search of suitable cover in case there should be any gun play.
Mr. Basswood was behind his counter, smoking a battered-looking briar. One side of the bowl was worn down nearly half an inch (from repeated knocking out on stone steps, I suppose). He was a fat, cross-looking person, with a black jut of moustache and a small, vindictive eye.
“A friend told me about your bookshop,” said Dulcet. “He said that you sometimes buy books and manuscripts and that sort of thing.”
“Yes, sometimes,” said Basswood, without enthusiasm.
“I have an unpublished story of Kenelm Digby's,” said Dulcet. “It is about forty pages of manuscript. What would you give for that?”
The dealer's eyes brightened. He took his pipe from his mouth, and knocked it out smartly on his heel, tramping on the glowing cinders. Dulcet looked at me gravely.
“Let me see it,” Basswood said, eagerly.
“I haven't got it with me. But give me an idea what it would be worth to you.”
“If it is genuine, and characteristic of Digby's genius,” said Basswood, slowly, “I would give you two hundred dollars for it.”