“Ah, good,” said Mr. Zanti, rolling his red handkerchief into a ball. “'Ere we are, my young friend--Mr. Peter, after you, please.” Before him a light faintly glimmered and towards this, after stumbling on the slippery pavement, he made his way. He found himself in a bookshop lighted with gas that hissed and spit like an angry cat; the shop was low and stuffy but its walls were covered with books that stretched into misty fog near the ceiling. Behind a dingy counter a man was sitting. This man struck Peter's attention at once because of the enormous size of his head and the amount of hair that covered it--starting out of the mist and obscurity of the shop, this head looked like some strange fungus, and from the heart of it there glittered two very bright eyes. Peter, standing awkwardly in the middle of the shop, gazed at this head and was speechless. Outside, Mr. Zanti could be heard disputing with the cabman. “You can go and be damned--ze bags were not on ze outside--Zat is plenty for your pay and you be damned--” The shop door closed with a bang shutting out the fog and Mr. Zanti filled the little bookshop. He seemed taller and larger than he had been in Cornwall and his voice was sharper. The head removed itself from the counter and Peter saw that it belonged to a small man with a hump who came forward to Mr. Zanti very humbly. “Ah, Gottfried,” said Zanti, “you well?” “Very, sir,” answered the little man, bowing a little and smiling; his voice was guttural with a very slight accent. “This is Mr. Peter Westcott. 'E will work here and 'elp you with ze books. 'E is a friend of mine and you will be kind to him. Mr. Peter, zis is Herr Gottfried Hanz--I owe 'im much--ver' clever man.” They shook hands and Peter liked the pair of eyes that gazed into his. Then Mr. Zanti said, “Come, I will show you ze rest of ze place. It is not a mansion, you will find.” Indeed it was not. Behind the shop there was a room, brown and green, with two windows that looked on to a yard, so Mr. Zanti said. There was no furniture in it save a table and some chairs; a woman was spreading a cloth on the table as they came in. This woman had grey hair that escaped its pins and fell untidily about her shoulders. She was very pale, tall and thin and her most striking features were her piercing black eyes and with these she stared at Peter. “Zis is Mrs. Dantzig,” said Mr. Zanti, “an old friend--Mr. Peter Westcott, Mrs. Dantzig. 'E will work wiz us.” The woman said nothing but nodded her head and continued her work. They passed out of the room. Stairs ran both up and down. “What is down there?” asked Peter. “Ah, zat is ze kitchen,” said Mr. Zanti, laughing. Upstairs there was a clean and neat bedroom with a large bed in it, an old sofa and two chairs. “Zis is where I sleep,” said Mr. Zanti. “For a night or two until you 'ave discovered a lodging you shall sleep on zat sofa. Zay will make it whilst we 'ave supper.”