The dynamo wagon was humming as he walked down the garden path, and with a hiss and a splutter from the arcs, the front of the cottage was suddenly illuminated by their fierce light. Outside on the road a motorist had pulled up to look upon the unusual spectacle.
“What is happening?” he asked curiously.
“They’re taking a picture,” said Michael.
“Oh, is that what it is? I suppose it is one of Knebworth’s outfits?”
“Where are you going?” demanded Michael suddenly. “Forgive my asking you, but if you’re heading for Chichester you can render me a very great service if you give me a lift.”
“Jump in,” said the man. “I’m going to Petworth, but it will not be much out of my way to take you into the city.”
Until they came to the town he plied Michael with questions betraying that universal inquisitiveness which picture-making invariably incites amongst the uninitiated.
Michael got down near the market-place and made his way to the house of a man he knew, a former master at his old school, now settled down in Chichester, who had, amongst other possessions, an excellent library. Declining his host’s pressing invitation to dinner, Michael stated his needs, and the old master laughed.
“I can’t remember that you were much of a student in my days, Michael,” he said, “but you may have the run of the library. Is it some line of Virgil that escapes you? I may be able to save you a hunt.”
“It’s not Virgil, maestro,” smiled Michael. “Something infinitely more full-blooded!”