Knowing that a sense of humour was not one of the things required of him, he controlled a smile. "We understood you wanted an expert, so I came myself." "You are Mr. Rickman then?" "Well--Mr. Rickman's son." The lady puckered her brows as if trying to recall something, an idea, a memory that escaped her. She gave it up. "Have you been waiting long?" "Not more than half an hour or so." "I am sorry. Perhaps you had better stay now and see what has to be done." He was tired, he had eaten nothing all day, his nerves were out of order, and he had an abominable headache, but he intimated that he and his time were at her service. She spoke with authority, and he wondered who she was. Sir Frederick Harden's daughter? Or his sister? Or his wife? "As you see, the books are fairly well arranged. It will not take very long to sort them." Oh wouldn't it, though! His heart sank miserably as he followed her progress round the room. "They'll have to be catalogued under their subjects--alphabetically, of course." "Quite so." She continued with the same swiftness and serenity, mistress of his time and intelligence, as of her own luminous and elaborate plan. "Their size will have to be given, the edition, the place and date of publication, the number of their shelf, and their place on the shelves." Their place on the shelves indeed! If those books had got into Dicky Pilkington's clutches their place would know them no more. He wondered; did she know nothing about Dicky Pilkington? Her plan implied certainty of possession, the permanence of the Harden Library world without end. He wondered whether he ought not to remind her that it might be about to come into the market, if it were not already as good as sold? "Besides the cataloguing I want notes on all the rare or remarkable books. I believe some of them are unique." He wondered more and more, and ended by wondering whether Dicky Pilkington were really so sure of his game? "I see. You want a catalogue _raisonné_." "I want something like this." She opened a drawer and showed him one of Rickman's Special Quarterly Catalogues of a year back. He remembered; it used to be sent regularly to old Sir Joseph Harden, their best customer. "My grandfather said these catalogues were models of their kind--they could only have been done by a scholar. He wanted the library catalogued on the same lines. It was to have been done in his lifetime--" "I wish it had been. I should have liked to have worked for Sir Joseph 'Arden." Stirred by the praise, and by a sudden recollection of Sir Joseph, he spoke with a certain emotion, so that an aitch went by the board. "Are you quite sure," said she, "that you know all about this sort of work?" Had she noticed that hideous accident? And did it shake her belief in his fitness for the scholarly task? "This _is_ my work. I made that catalogue. I have to make them every quarter, so it keeps my hand in." "Are you a quick worker?" "Yes, I can be pretty quick."