He pushed open the door and entered the shop. At first he found it difficult to see clearly; for it was already nearly four o’clock, the sky heavily overcast, the place ill-lighted, the gas-jets unlit. But after a moment of suspense, he made out a tall, gaunt, bearded, old man, with sunken cheeks, hollow eye-sockets, closely cropped grizzled hair, seated in a corner of the shop upon a rough, faded horsehair chair, with a little round table in front of him, carefully gumming together the loose leaves of a large folio which he held upon his knee. The old man’s head was bent low over his work, and he made no sign of having heard anyone enter.

“ Mr. Malakite?” said Wolf quietly, advancing towards him between rows of books. His approach was so easy and natural in that dim light, that his astonishment may be imagined when the old man let the folio fall to the ground, and stumbled to his feet with such agitated violence that the round table collapsed also, tossing the glue-pot upon the floor. In that twilit place it was almost spectral to see the eyes in that old furrowed face staring forth like black holes burnt in a wooden panel.