"Those words sound almost as if you were foretelling the future," he said.
The old man smiled. He rose from his chair, took his cane, and motioned to Duncan.
"Come," he said. "Time may be precious. You have work to do."
* * *
Leading the way down a dark hall toward the front of the house, the old man stopped at a door. He opened the portal and revealed a small room, lighted by lobed wall lamps. The apartment was lined with shelves of books.
"Step in," he invited. "This is my study. A quiet, cozy place in which you will not be disturbed."
Duncan entered the room. He noted that it contained no windows. It was a square room, with a desk in one corner where the bookcases ended. There was another special corner; it was almost an addition to the room — a small nook that projected into the wall.
Evidently it was intended as a place for a reading corner; there was a chair there and a light in the ceiling above, which was lower than the rest of the room. But the light was not turned on.
Isaac Coffran indicated the desk. A pile of letters lay upon it, under the beam of a small desk lamp.
"Your uncle's letters," said the old man. "I have not even looked through them. I know that some of them date back as far as twenty years. They are all dated, I believe, and I have kept them in regular order from beginning to end.