“I came here with a message for you.”
“Oh, yes. About a book.”
“No; from your lawyer, Mr. Boise.”
“Oh, yes, yes. You are in a law office. I remember now.”
“It’s very important,” went on Tom, in a low voice, approaching close to the aged physician. “Perhaps I had better shut the door.”
“No, no,” said the doctor. “Leave it open. If it’s closed, she’ll sneak up, and listen at the key hole. She’s—she’s a—a Tartar!” he exclaimed softly. “She makes life miserable for me. I don’t wonder my poor brother died. Come, we’ll go into an inner room. Then she can’t hear us.”
He opened a door of a smaller apartment, leading from the main library.
“This is where I keep the rarest books,” said the doctor. “There is one volume of Horace here that is worth—well, I really have forgotten for the moment just how much it is worth, but I know it is quite valuable. I picked it up the same day I secured a copy of Plato—but there—what have you to tell me?”
“Mr. Boise wants those papers I brought to you one day. Those papers about your estate.”
“Papers—did you bring me some papers?”