“Excuse me, sir; the treatment is by no means dangerous. After this bath, I shall take it through one of thin size, to help the paper to hold together. The book has suffered much, both from damp and insects.” “No matter!” answered Lestrange imperiously. “I will not have you meddle further with that volume.--Would you believe it, Hardy,” he went on, turning to the curate, “it is that translation of Ovid he is experimenting upon!” “I beg your pardon, I am not experimenting,” said Richard. “I hardly think it is such a very rare book!” replied the curate. “I believe it _could_ be replaced!” “Ah, you don't know, I see! I thought I had shown you!” returned Lestrange excitedly. “Look there!” He pointed to the title-page, which was lying on the table. “I see!” said Hardy. “It is a first edition--in black letter--of Arthur Golding's Ovid!” “But you don't look! Why don't you look? Have you no eyes for that faded ink just under the title?” “Why! What's this? _Gul. Shaksper!_--Is it possible!” “You find it hard to believe your eyes, and well you may!--There, Tuke! I told you you didn't know what you were doing!” “I always examine the title-page of a book,” answered Richard. “You must allow me to do as I see fit, Mr. Lestrange, or I give up the job.” “You undertook to work for a year, if required!” “I did not undertake to receive orders as to my mode of working. I care for books far too much for that. Besides, I have my character to see to! I warn you that if I do not go on with that volume, it will be ruined.” “You don't consider the money you risk!--That name makes the book worth hundreds at least.” “It is the greatest of names! Only that name was not written by him who owned it!” “What do you know about it!” said Lestrange rudely. “Are you an expert?” asked the curate. “By no means,” answered Richard; “but I have been a good deal with old books, and my impression is you have got there one of the Ireland forgeries!” “I believe it to be quite genuine!” said Lestrange. “If it be, there is the more reason in what I am doing, sir.” Lestrange turned abruptly to the curate, saying--“Come along, Hardy! I can't bear to see the butchery!” “Depend on it,” returned the curate laughing, “the surgeon knows his knife!--You _know_ what you're about, don't you, Mr. Tuke?” “If I did not, sir, I wouldn't meddle with a book like that, forgery or no forgery! You should see the quantities of old print I've destroyed in learning how to save such books!--This is no vile body to experiment upon!” “Mr. Lestrange, you may trust that man!” said the curate. CHAPTER XV. _BARBARA WYLDER._