Only at sunset did I leave the house. There was an unwonted sweetness in
the air; the long vistas of newly lit lamps made a golden glow under the
dusking flush of the sky. With no purpose but to rest and breathe, I
wandered for half an hour, and found myself at length where Great Portland
Street opens into Marylebone Road. Over the way, in the shadow of Trinity
Church, was an old bookshop, well known to me: the gas-jet shining upon the
stall with its rows of volumes drew me across. I began turning over pages,
and--invariable consequence--fingering what money I had in my pocket. A
certain book overcame me; I stepped into the little shop to pay for it.
While standing at the stall, I had been vaguely aware of some one beside
me, a man who also was looking over the books; as I came out again with my
purchase, this stranger gazed at me intently, with a half-smile of peculiar
interest. He seemed about to say something. I walked slowly away; the man
moved in the same direction. Just in front of the church he made a quick
movement to my side, and spoke.
'Pray excuse me, sir--don't misunderstand me--I only wished to ask whether
you have noticed the name written on the flyleaf of the book you have just
bought?'
The respectful nervousness of his voice naturally made me suppose at first
that the man was going to beg; but he seemed no ordinary mendicant.
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