There was no sign of life about the place. The shades were drawn; it bore a look of desertion. Only pausing for a moment, as even a book-agent might, after many repeated rebuffs, Garrison wended his way across the street, proceeded slowly up the concrete walk, ascended the steps, and rang the bell.
There was no result. He rang again, and out of the corner of his eye beheld the curtain pushed a trifle aside, in the window near at hand, where someone looked out from this concealment. For the third time he rang—and at last the door was opened for a distance no more than six inches wide. The face he saw was old man Robinson's.
The chain on the door was securely fastened, otherwise Garrison would have pushed his way inside without further ado. He noted this barely in time to save himself from committing an error.
"Go away!" said old Robinson testily. "No books wanted!"
"I hope you will not refuse a tired old man," said Garrison, in a voice that seemed trembling with weakness. "The books I have to offer are quite remarkable indeed.
"Don't want them. Good-day!" said Robinson. He tried to close the door, but Garrison's foot prevented.
"One of my books is particularly valuable to read to headstrong young women. If you have a daughter—or any young woman in the house——"
"She can't see anyone—I mean there's no such person here!" snapped
Robinson. "What's the matter with that door?"
"My other book is of the rarest interest," insisted Garrison. "An account of the breaking of the Butler will—a will drawn up by the most astute and crafty lawyer in America, yet broken because of its flaws. A book——"
"Whose will was that?" demanded Robinson, his interest suddenly roused. "Some lawyer, did you say?" He relaxed his pressure on the door and fumbled at the chain.