Weakly, he leaned back against the book shelves. Preston Haver stood inside the vault door, half in shadow. He looked yellower and bonier than ever and his gaunt mirthless grin seemed more grotesque.
Nodding and still grinning, he shuffled forward. "I see you're shelving my books!" His voice was cracked and thin. It sounded to Newling as if it came from the far end of the corridor.
Newling stammered. "You, you have a fine collection, Mr. Haver. We're putting the—the best ones—here in the vault."
Preston Haver's ghastly grin widened. His long yellow eye-teeth looked like fangs, Newling thought.
He peered at the librarian with his reddish eyes. "There's just one"—his eyes roved the shelves—"one that I sent by mistake. I want it back."
Newling nodded. "Of course. Could you—ah—describe it, sir?"
The visitor stared at him, with a kind of enigmatic smirk. "A small book, with a soft cover. I'm sure you'd have it here. It's rare—oh, very rare!"
He threw back his head and laughed, while Newling listened in horrified fascination. He had never heard Preston Haver laugh before. He hoped he never did again.
Regaining some measure of composure, Newling turned to the shelves and began a systematic scrutiny. He felt thoroughly chilled, chilled to the very marrow. Of course it was imagination, but Preston Haver's presence seemed to have immeasurably intensified the oppressive clammy atmosphere of the vault.
Newling sighed with relief when he spotted the book.