“And which is _your_ particular fancy, Bill?” said Antony, looking from one shelf to another. “Or are you always playing billiards?” “I have a look at ‘Badminton’ sometimes,” said Bill. “It’s over in that corner there.” He waved a hand. “Over here?” said Antony, going to it. “Yes.” He corrected himself suddenly. “Oh, no, it’s not. It’s over there on the right now. Mark had a grand re-arrangement of his library about a year ago. It took him more than a week, he told us. He’s got such a frightful lot, hasn’t he?” “Now that’s very interesting,” said Antony, and he sat down and filled his pipe again. There was indeed a “frightful lot” of books. The four walls of the library were plastered with them from floor to ceiling, save only where the door and the two windows insisted on living their own life, even though an illiterate one. To Bill it seemed the most hopeless room of any in which to look for a secret opening. “We shall have to take every blessed book down,” he said, “before we can be certain that we haven’t missed it.” “Anyway,” said Antony, “if we take them down one at a time, nobody can suspect us of sinister designs. After all, what does one go into a library for, except to take books down?” “But there’s such a frightful lot.” Antony’s pipe was now going satisfactorily, and he got up and walked leisurely to the end of the wall opposite the door. “Well, let’s have a look,” he said, “and see if they are so very frightful. Hallo, here’s your ‘Badminton.’ You often read that, you say?” “If I read anything.” “Yes.” He looked down and up the shelf. “Sport and Travel chiefly. I like books of travel, don’t you?” “They’re pretty dull as a rule.” “Well, anyhow, some people like them very much,” said Antony, reproachfully. He moved on to the next row of shelves. “The Drama. The Restoration dramatists. You can have most of them. Still, as you well remark, many people seem to love them. Shaw, Wilde, Robertson—I like reading plays, Bill. There are not many people who do, but those who do are usually very keen. Let us pass on.” “I say, we haven’t too much time,” said Bill restlessly. “We haven’t. That’s why we aren’t wasting any. Poetry. Who reads poetry nowadays? Bill, when did you last read ‘Paradise Lost’?” “Never.” “I thought not. And when did Miss Calladine last read ‘The Excursion’ aloud to you?” “As a matter of fact, Betty—Miss Calladine—happens to be jolly keen on—what’s the beggar’s name?” “Never mind his name. You have said quite enough. We pass on.” He moved on to the next shelf. “Biography. Oh, lots of it. I love biographies. Are you a member of the Johnson Club? I bet Mark is. ‘Memories of Many Courts’—I’m sure Mrs. Calladine reads that. Anyway, biographies are just as interesting as most novels, so why linger? We pass on.” He went to the next shelf, and then gave a sudden whistle. “Hallo, hallo!” “What’s the matter?” said Bill rather peevishly.