“Pray do not apologise,” said the old gentleman, mildly. “I was busy reading, and did not hear.”
He pushed his glasses a little higher and smiled in a pleasant, benevolent fashion, while at the first glance Chester saw that he was quite off the scent. For he gazed past the old man into the great hall whose walls were covered with book-shelves, while parcels and piles of volumes were heaped up in every available corner.
“I see that I have made a mistake,” said Chester, hastily.
“Indeed?”
“I have come to the wrong house. I am very sorry. I am trying to find some people here.”
“Yes? Well, houses are very much alike. Will you step in? I can perhaps help you. I think I have a Directory somewhere—somewhere, if I can lay my hand upon it, for I seldom use such a work, and I have so many books.”
The old gentleman, whose appearance branded him as a dreamy, absorbed bookworm, drew back, and Chester involuntarily entered the hall, to note that with the book-cases away it would be such a place as he had visited; but while that was magnificently furnished, and pervaded by the soft glow of electric light, here all was dust and mouldering knowledge, the entrance suggesting that the rest of the house must be the same.
“Pray come in,” said the old man, after closing the door; and he led the way into what had been intended for a large dining-room, but had been turned by its occupant into a library, packed with books from floor to ceiling; piles were upon the tables and chairs, and heaps here and there upon the dusty old Turkey carpet.
“Directory—Directory,” said the old man, looking slowly round. “Books, books, books, but not the one we want.”
“You seem to have a large and valuable library,” Chester ventured to observe.