“In this room!” ejaculated my Lord Clevedale, looking round.
“Certainly,” said my lord. “That is why I chose this room today.” He rose. “Tell me, cousin, are you a great reader?”
“No, I am not,” said Rensley curtly.
“Nor was my brother,” said his lordship. “I thought of that at the time. My father was much addicted to the works of Shakespeare but I believe he had no Latin.”
“What’s all this to do with it?” Rensley demanded uneasily.
My lord’s glance travelled to the top shelf of the books that lined the room. “Do you ever chance to take down the works of the poet Horace, cousin?”
“No, I do not, and I don’t see — ”
“Nor did my brother, I am convinced,” said my lord. “I thought it was safe — wonderfully safe, and wonderfully neat. I admire my own astuteness.” He met the puzzled eyes of my Lord Clevedale. “A great pity to have no knowledge of the humanities,” he said. “It is an estimable advantage. Had you been familiar with the Odes of Horace, cousin — but you are not. But take them down now: it is never too late to begin. Over in that corner, on the top shelf you will find the first volume, elegantly bound in tooled leather, the covers clasped by wrought hasps.”
“Pray, sir, what’s your meaning?” Mr Brent asked.
“Why, is it not plain?” said my lord. “I ask my cousin to pull the steps to that corner, and to take down the Odes of Horace. Let him open the clasps, and turn to the Fifth Ode.”