He found the old man amidst a pile of books, murmuring with bent head over a volume bound in vellum, which he was showing to a customer, evidently a stranger to the place. Mr. Malakite did not hear him enter, and Wolf found himself looking with a queer interest at that bowed back and grizzled head. What did it feel like, as the days went on, to know that one possessed, only five miles away, a child like Olwen, the daughter of a daughter? Did the old man ever see Olwen? Did he know anything of the child’s thoughts? Did he want to know anything? A chance movement made by the customer brought Wolf now into the bookseller’s vision. A startled look passed for a second over the old man’s face, but he betrayed no other sign of embarrassment.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Solent,” he said quietly. “Have you come to see me or to see Miss Malakite?” And then, without waiting for an answer: “You’ll find her in the room upstairs. Mr. Otter has just gone.”