“On the contrary, every page is a revelation. Why, the binding alone is a poem! Merely to hold it in one’s lap and look at the cover is a gentle intoxication.”
Wavering between a smile and a frown, she answered:
“I wonder if all rajahs are such transparent flatterers. But come! Find the book! It must be downstairs in the library.”
“No, it is not down there. I know every book among them.”
“Where can it be, then? tucked away in some trunk or drawer?”
“Probably.”
“Could it be in that?” and she pointed to an old cherry-wood desk just behind him. He turned and regarded it.
“As likely there as anywhere. It is the desk he used until he died.”
Molly opened the slanting top and found an array of pigeonholes filled with old papers. There were some very small drawers, all of which she opened, but they contained no book, so she closed the top and opened the long upper drawer. It was almost empty, the only contents being a few envelopes of seeds, some tools, scattered cards, and a couple of marbles that ran about as the drawer was opened.
“I rather think you know this place,” and she lifted up a bladeless jackknife. “Only a boy could treat a knife in such a way.”