"I am sorry. Perhaps you had better stay now and see what has to be done."
He was tired, he had eaten nothing all day, his nerves were out of order, and he had an abominable headache, but he intimated that he and his time were at her service. She spoke with authority, and he wondered who she was. Sir Frederick Harden's daughter? Or his sister? Or his wife?
"As you see, the books are fairly well arranged. It will not take very long to sort them."
Oh wouldn't it, though! His heart sank miserably as he followed her progress round the room.
"They'll have to be catalogued under their subjects—alphabetically, of course."
"Quite so."
She continued with the same swiftness and serenity, mistress of his time and intelligence, as of her own luminous and elaborate plan. "Their size will have to be given, the edition, the place and date of publication, the number of their shelf, and their place on the shelves."
Their place on the shelves indeed! If those books had got into Dicky Pilkington's clutches their place would know them no more. He wondered; did she know nothing about Dicky Pilkington? Her plan implied certainty of possession, the permanence of the Harden Library world without end. He wondered whether he ought not to remind her that it might be about to come into the market, if it were not already as good as sold?
"Besides the cataloguing I want notes on all the rare or remarkable books. I believe some of them are unique."
He wondered more and more, and ended by wondering whether Dicky Pilkington were really so sure of his game?