“Perfectly, sir.”
Wingrave locked the door. The next hour belonged to himself alone...
When at last he rang the bell, he gave Morrison a note.
“This is to be delivered at once,” he said.
The man bowed and withdrew. Wingrave, with his hands behind him, strolled out into the library. In a remote corner, a small spectacled person was busy writing at a table. Wingrave crossed the room and stood before him.
“Are you my librarian?” he asked.
The man rose at once.
“Certainly, sir,” he answered. “My name is Woodall. You may have forgotten it. I am at work now upon a new catalogue.”
Wingrave nodded.
“I have a quarto Shakespeare, I think,” he said, “that I marked at Sotheby’s, also a manuscript Thomas a Kempis, and a first edition of Herrick. I should like to see them.”