Average Jones recalled the Æschylean line. “Well, though ‘a great ox hath stepped on my tongue,’ it hasn’t trodden out my eyes, praises be!” said he to himself as he caught the uneasy glance of the Roman. By way of allaying suspicion, he scribbled upon a sheet of paper a few complimentary Latin sentences, in which Warren had sedulously coached him for the occasion, and withdrew to the front room, where he was presently joined by the Johns Hopkins man. Fortunately, the colonel gave them a few moments together. “Arrange for me to come here daily to study in the library,” whispered Jones to the Latin professor. The other nodded. “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.