"May I ask you for a glass of water, Mr. Smith?" broke next from the said dry lips.
"I'll get it for you in a moment, sir," said the agent, rising with alacrity.
Karl heard another match struck outside, and then the steps of the agent retreating in the direction of the pump. In his restlessness of mind he could not sit still, but rose to pace the room. A small set of ornamental book-shelves, hanging against the wall, caught his attention: he halted before it and took down a volume, mechanically, rather than with any motive.
"Philip Salter. From his loving mother."
The words met Karl's eyes as he opened the book.
Just for a moment he questioned whether his sight was deceiving him. But no. There they were, in a lady's hand, the ink dry and faded with time. It was Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress."
"Is it Salter, after all?" mentally breathed Karl.
Mr. Smith came in again with the glass of water as the doubt was running through Karl's mind. Thanking his agent for the water, he drank it at a draught, and sat down with the book in his hand.
"I have been amongst your books, you see, Mr. Smith. A sound old volume, this."
"So it is, Sir Karl. I dip into it myself now and then."