The respectful nervousness of his voice naturally made me suppose at first that the man was going to beg; but he seemed no ordinary mendicant. I judged him to be about sixty years of age; his long, thin hair and straggling beard were grizzled, and a somewhat rheumy eye looked out from his bloodless, hollowed countenance; he was very shabbily clad, yet as a fallen gentleman, and indeed his accent made it clear to what class he originally belonged. The expression with which he regarded me had so much intelligence, so much good-nature, and at the same time such a pathetic diffidence, that I could not but answer him in the friendliest way. I had not seen the name on the flyleaf, but at once I opened the book, and by the light of a gas-lamp read, inscribed in a very fine hand, 'W. R. Christopherson, 1849.'
'It is my name,' said the stranger, in a subdued and uncertain voice.
'Indeed? The book used to belong to you?'
'It belonged to me.' He laughed oddly, a tremulous little crow of a laugh, at the same time stroking his head, as if to deprecate disbelief. 'You never heard of the sale of the Christopherson library? To be sure, you were too young; it was in 1860. I have often come across books with my name in them on the stalls—often. I had happened to notice this just before you came up, and when I saw you look at it, I was curious to see whether you would buy it. Pray excuse the freedom I am taking. Lovers of books—don't you think—?'
The broken question was completed by his look, and when I said that I quite understood and agreed with him he crowed his little laugh.
'Have you a large library?' he inquired, eyeing me wistfully.
'Oh dear, no. Only a few hundred volumes. Too many for one who has no house of his own.'
He smiled good-naturedly, bent his head, and murmured just audibly:
'My catalogue numbered 24,718.'
I was growing curious and interested. Venturing no more direct questions, I asked whether, at the time he spoke of, he lived in London.