"I know, sir, that there are some people who think nothing of lending a book; they can hand over a treasured volume to a friend--to an indifferent acquaintance even--without a pang; they can see him turn the leaves and violate the stiffness of the back. I, Monsieur, would almost as soon lend my arm and hand as one of those books; but for you I will make an exception. You shall have the volume which contains the report of the Prévol case, to read and take notes from at your leisure." "You are more than good." Monsieur Drubarde's library consisted of four rows of handsomely bound volumes, whose gilded backs shone behind a barricade of plate glass, in a locked bookcase. They were books which he had collected at his leisure, and which bore for the most part on his profession: the memoirs of Vidocq, the memoirs of Canler, of Sanson the executioner, and other biographies of equally thrilling interest. For literature of so lofty a stamp, Félix Drubarde had deemed no binding too luxurious; and he had clothed his favourites in all the pomp of purple, and green, and crimson, and sumptuous gilding. He had caused them to be enriched with the bookbinder's whole gamut of ornament--his _fleurs-de-lis_ and roses, his foliage and acorns, and scrolls and emblems. Even the volume of printed reports which Drubarde handed to Mr. Heathcote was gorgeous in red morocco and gold. "You will find the case fully reported in that volume," he said. "When you have read it, and made your own conclusions upon it, you can come back to me, and we will talk the matter over together." "I will call upon you again to-morrow at the same hour, if you will allow me," replied Heathcote, laying a ten-pound note upon the table. "But I must ask you in the mean time to accept this trifle as an earnest of future remuneration. I do not on any account desire to impose on your good-nature." Monsieur Drubarde shrugged his shoulders, declared that as a matter of feeling he would rather work gratuitously for any friend of Mr. Distin's, but that from a business point of view his time was valuable. He had a little place in the country, fifteen miles out of Paris; he had nephews and nieces dependent upon him; in a word, he had to work for others as well as for himself. "Before you go, perhaps you will be so good as to tell me your motive for hunting up the history of this old murder," he said, with a keen look. He had been intending to ask this question from the beginning. "I am searching out the details of an old murder in order to fathom the mystery of a new murder, or of a strange death, which I take to be a murder. Can you read English, Monsieur Drubarde?" "I have a niece who can--a girl who was educated at a convent in Jersey. I am going to my country home this afternoon, and my niece can read anything you give me." Mr. Heathcote took from his pocket-book the report of the inquest, cut out of the local papers, and pasted on slips of foolscap.