“Now, sit tight,” added Jones.
He stepped, soft-footed, on the thick old rug, across to the library door and threw it open. Just inside stood Livius, an expression of startled anger on his thin face. Quickly recovering himself, he explained, in his ready Latin, that he was about to enter and speak to his patron.
“Shows a remarkable interest in possible conversation,” whispered Jones, on his withdrawal, “for a man who understands no English. Also does me the honor to suspect me. He must have been a wily chap—in the Consulship of Plancus.”
Before leaving, Average Jones had received from Colonel Graeme a general invitation to spend as much time as he chose, studying among the books. The old man-servant, Saul, had orders to admit him at any hour. He returned to his hotel to write a courteous note of acknowledgment.
Many hours has Average Jones spent more tediously than those passed in the cool seclusion of Colonel Ridgway Graeme’s treasure-house of print. He burrowed among quaint accumulations of forgotten classics. He dipped with astonishment into the savage and ultra-Rabelaisian satire of Von Hutter’s “Epistolæ, Obscurorum Virorum,” which set early sixteenth century Europe a-roar with laughter at the discomfited monks; and he cleansed himself from that tainted atmosphere in the fresh air and free English of a splendid Audubon “first”—and all the time he was conscious that the Roman watched, watched, watched. More than, once Livius offered aid, seeking to apprise himself of the supposed mute’s line of investigation; but the other smilingly fended him off. At the end of four days, Average Jones had satisfied himself that if Livius were seeking anything in particular, he had an indefinite task before him, for the colonel’s bound treasures were in indescribable confusion. Apparently he had bought from far and near, without definite theme or purpose. As he bought he read, and having read, cast aside; and where a volume fell, there it had license to lie. No cataloguer had ever sought to restore order to that bibliographic riot. To seek any given book meant a blind voyage, without compass or chart, throughout the mingled centuries.
Often Colonel Graeme spent hours in one or the other of the huge book-rooms talking with his strange protege and making copious notes. Usually the old gentleman questioned and the other answered. But one morning the attitude seemed, to the listening Ad-Visor, to be reversed. Livius, in the far corner of the room, was speaking in a low tone. To judge from the older man’s impatient manner the Roman was interrupting his host’s current of queries with interrogations of his own. Average Jones made a mental note, and, in conference with Warren that evening, asked him to ascertain from Colonel Graeme whether Livius’s inquiries had indicated a specific interest in any particular line of reading.
On the following day, however, an event of more immediate import occupied his mind. He had spent the morning in the up-stairs library, at the unevadable suggestion of Colonel Graeme, while the colonel and his Roman collogued below. Coming down about noon, Average Jones entered the colonel’s small study just in time to see Livius, who was alone in the room, turn away sharply from the desk. His elbow was held close to his ribs in a peculiar manner. He was concealing something under his coat. With a pretense of clumsiness, Average Jones stumbled against him in passing. Livius drew away, his high forehead working with suspicion. The Ad-Visor’s expression of blank apology, eked out with a bow and a grimace, belied the busy-working mind within. For, in the moment’s contact, he had heard the crisp rustle of paper from beneath the ill-fitting coat.
What paper had the man from B. C. taken furtively from his benefactor’s table? It must be large; otherwise he could have readily thrust it into his pocket. No sooner was Livius out of the room than Average Jones scanned the desk. His face lighted with a sudden smile. Colonel Graeme never read a newspaper; boasted, in fact, that he wouldn’t have one about the place. But, as Average Jones distinctly recalled, he had, himself, that very morning brought, in a copy of the Globe and dropped it into the scrap basket near the writing-table. It was gone. Livius had taken it.
“If he’s got the newspaper-reading habit,” said Average Jones to himself, “I’ll set a trap for him. But Warren must furnish the bait.”
He went to look up his aide. The conference between them was long and exhaustive, covering the main points of the case from the beginning.