Booksellers and bookselling -- Fiction; Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.) -- Fiction; Mystery and detective stories
"I guess it was your friend the assistant chef," said Mrs. Mifflin.
"Anyway, he had a beard like a Christmas tree. He was mighty polite.
He said he was terribly absent minded, and that the other day he was in
here looking at some books and just walked off with it without knowing
what he was doing. He offered to pay for the trouble he had caused,
but of course I wouldn't let him. I asked if he wanted to see you, but
he said he was in a hurry."
"I'm almost disappointed," said Roger. "I thought that I had turned up
a real booklover. Here we are, all hands drink the health of Mr.
Thomas Carlyle."
The toast was drunk, and they settled themselves in their chairs.
"And here's to the new employee," said Helen. This also was
dispatched, Aubrey draining his glass with a zeal which did not escape
Miss Chapman's discerning eye. Roger then put out his hand for the
Dickens. But first he picked up his beloved Cromwell. He looked at it
carefully, and then held the volume close to the light.
"The mystery's not over yet," he said. "It's been rebound. This isn't
the original binding."
"Are you sure?" said Helen in surprise. "It looks the same."
"The binding has been cleverly imitated, but it can't fool me. In the
first place, there was a rubbed corner at the top; and there was an ink
stain on one of the end papers."
"There's still a stain there," said Aubrey, looking over his shoulder.
"Yes, but not the same stain. I've had that book long enough to know
it by heart. Now what the deuce would that lunatic want to have it
rebound for?"
"Goodness gracious," said Helen, "put it away and forget about it.
We'll all be dreaming about Carlyle if you're not careful."
Chapter V
Aubrey Walks Part Way Home--and Rides The Rest of the Way
It was a cold, clear night as Mr. Aubrey Gilbert left the Haunted
Bookshop that evening, and set out to walk homeward. Without making a
very conscious choice, he felt instinctively that it would be agreeable
to walk back to Manhattan rather than permit the roaring disillusion of
the subway to break in upon his meditations.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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