I
judged him to be about sixty years of age; his long, thin hair and
straggling beard were grizzled, and a somewhat rheumy eye looked out from
his bloodless, hollowed countenance; he was very shabbily clad, yet as a
fallen gentleman, and indeed his accent made it clear to what class he
originally belonged. The expression with which he regarded me had so much
intelligence, so much good-nature, and at the same time such a pathetic
diffidence, that I could not but answer him in the friendliest way. I had
not seen the name on the flyleaf, but at once I opened the book, and by the
light of a gas-lamp read, inscribed in a very fine hand, 'W. R.
Christopherson, 1849.'
'It is my name,' said the stranger, in a subdued and uncertain voice.
'Indeed? The book used to belong to you?'
'It belonged to me.' He laughed oddly, a tremulous little crow of a laugh,
at the same time stroking his head, as if to deprecate disbelief. 'You
never heard of the sale of the Christopherson library? To be sure, you were
too young; it was in 1860. I have often come across books with my name in
them on the stalls--often. I had happened to notice this just before you
came up, and when I saw you look at it, I was curious to see whether you
would buy it.
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