“They don’t know. Livius explained his remote antecedents only after he had got Colonel Graeme’s private ear. The colonel has kept it quiet. ‘Don’t want a rabble of psychologists and soul-pokers worrying him to death,’ he says.” “Making it pretty plain sailing for the Roman. Well, arrange to take me there as soon as possible.” At the Graeme house, Average Jones was received with simple courtesy by a thin rosy-cheeked old gentleman with a dagger-like imperial and a dreamy eye, who, on Warren’s introduction, made him free of the unkempt old place’s hospitality. They conversed for a time, Average Jones maintaining his end with nods and gestures, and (ostensibly) through the digital mediumship of his sponsor. Presently Warren said to the host: “And where is your visitor from the past?” “Prowling among my books,” answered the old gentleman. “Are we not going to see him?” The colonel looked a little embarrassed. “The fact is, Professor Warren, Livius has taken rather an aversion to you.” “I’m sorry. How so?” A twinkle of malice shone in the old scholar’s eye. “He says your Latin accent frets his nerves,” he explained. “In that case,” said Warren, obeying a quick signal from his accomplice, “I’ll stroll in the garden, while you present Mr. Jones to Livius.” Colonel Graeme led the way to a lofty wing, once used as a drawing-room, but now the repository for thousands of books, which not only filled the shelves but were heaped up in every corner. “I must apologize for this confusion, sir,” said the host. “No one is permitted to arrange my books but myself. And my efforts, I fear, serve only to make confusion more confounded. There are four other rooms even more chaotic than this.” At the sound of his voice a man who had been seated behind a tumulus of volumes rose and stood. Average Jones looked at him keenly. He was perhaps forty-five years of age, thin and sinewy, with a close-shaven face, pale blue eyes, and a narrow forehead running high into a mop of grizzled locks. Diagonally across the front part of the scalp a scar could be dimly perceived through the hair. Average Jones glanced at the stranger’s hands, to gain, if possible, some hint of his former employment. With his faculty of swift observation, he noticed that the long, slender fingers were not only mottled with dust, but also scuffed, and, in places, scarified, as if their owner had been hurriedly handling a great number of books. Colonel Graeme presented the new-comer in formal Latin. He bowed. The scarred man made a curious gesture of the hand, addressing Average Jones in an accent which, even to the young man’s long-unaccustomed cars, sounded strange and strained. “_Di illi linguam astrinxere; mutus est_,” said Colonel Graeme, indicating the younger man, and added a sentence in sonorous metrical Greek.