A few pictures here and there in spaces between the shelves--the hectic flummery of a Whistler nocturne; a woman _avec cerises_, by Manet; a green silk fan, painted with _fêtes gallantes_, by Conder--alone broke the many-coloured monotony of the books. Gortre had, from his earliest Oxford days, been a lover of books and a collector in a moderate, discriminating way. As a rule he was roused to a mild enthusiasm by a fine library. But as his practised eye ran over the shelves, noting the beauty and variety of the contents, he was unmoved by any special interest. His brain, still, so it seemed, under some outside and compelling instinct or influence, was singularly detached from ordinary interests and rejected the books' appeal. Close to where he stood the shelves were covered with theological works. Müller's _Lectures on the Vedanta Philosophy_, Romane's _Reply to Dr. Lightfoot_, De la Saussaye's _Manual_, stood together. His hand had been wandering unconsciously over the books when it was suddenly arrested, and stopped on a familiar black binding with plain gold letters. It was an ordinary reference edition of the Holy Bible, the "pearl" edition from the Oxford University Press. There was something familiar and homely in the little dark volume, which showed signs of constant use. A few feet away was a long shelf of Bibles of all kinds, rare editions, expensive copies bound up with famous commentaries--all the luxuries and _éditions de luxe_ of Holy Writ. But the book beneath his fingers was the same size and shape as the one which stood near his own bedside in his rooms--the one which his father had given him when he went to Harrow, with "Flee youthful lusts" written on the fly-leaf in faded ink. It was homelike and familiar. He drew it out with a half smile at himself for choosing the one book he knew by heart from this new wealth of literature. Then a swift impulse came to him. Gortre could not be called a superstitious man. The really religious temperament, which, while not rejecting the aids of surface and symbol, has seen far below them, rarely is "superstitious" as the word has come to be understood. The familiar touch, the pleasant sensation of the limp, rough leather on his finger-balls gave him a feeling of security. But that very fact seemed to remind him that some danger, some subtle mental danger, was near. Was this Bible sent to him? he wondered. Were his eyes and hands _directed_ to it by the vibrating, invisible presences which he felt were near him? Who could say? But he took the book in his right hand, breathed a prayer for help and guidance--if it might so be that God, who watched him, would speak a message of help--and opened it at random. He was about to make a trial of that old mediæval practice of "searching"--that harmless trial of faith which a modern hard-headed cleric has analysed so cleverly, so completely, and so entirely unsatisfactorily.