LITMIR.BIZ

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E. L. Pearson, who speaks of it as a place where one feels a shyness in the presence of books.

      It has not that odour of sanctity which to amateur bibliophiles means the smell of old leather.

      The room discovered after descending Sewell’s three stone steps was large and hospitable. The walls were book-covered up to the high ceiling, and on tables and benches and chairs were more books. And not only books, there were fascinating bits of curious crafts. Old glass, Early American as well as foreign stuff. Pretty tricks, like ships in bottles and silver teaspoons in a cherry pit.

      But mostly books. Books you’d forgotten and books you wished you had forgotten. Rare books and always genuine. Queer books, holy books and poems by the Sweet Singer of Michigan.

      But all these things were in the great front room. There was a smaller room back of it, where the more nearly priceless volumes were kept in safes, and where conferences were held that often proved John Sewell’s right to the title awarded him as most knowledgeable of all the dealers in the city.

      And it was to this back room that Philip Balfour and his librarian made their way.

      They did not go round on Lexington Avenue at all. From the cross street—they were walking on the south side—they turned into an alley about midway of the block.

      The dark wooden gate swung easily open and the two men stepped through, a few more paces bringing them to the rear of the shop.

      It seemed inadvisable to use a flashlight, but they knew their way and Ramsay felt round for the window-sill.

      ‘Are you going to open door or window?’ Balfour whispered, and Ramsay returned:

      ‘Window, I think. The door creaks like an old inn signboard.’

      ‘Have you a thin-bladed knife?’

      ‘Rather,’ and Keith opened the article in question. Then he slipped it between the sashes and the window went up easily.

      He stepped inside, unlocked the door and opened it carefully, to minimize the creak, and Balfour entered.

      Ramsay closed the door and said, ‘What about lights?’

      ‘Of course we must have light,’ Balfour told him. ‘I think they’ll not be noticed; it isn’t very late and undoubtedly Sewell is often here of an evening. Turn on two, anyway.’

      Ramsay snapped on two small side lights and they looked about the room. A little more formal than the front room, there were lockers and cupboards instead of book-shelves and a large table with several chairs around it.

      The room had a scholarly air—every item was of definite interest and of distinct historic or literary value. On the walls were old prints and portraits; a panoply of savage weapons; some rare bits of textile fabrics.

      Ramsay loved the room. It was one of his greatest pleasures to lounge there while John Sewell and Philip Balfour discussed bookish themes.

      Sometimes there were caucuses, where six or eight connoisseurs and collectors gathered to exchange views, or more likely to get the benefit of Sewell’s views.

      Many experiments had proved the futility of trying to catch him with a name he had never heard. However obscure or of however recent prominence, Sewell invariably proved to be thoroughly acquainted with the man and his works, his history and his place in the literary world.

      On a side table lay some delightful old silver toys. Groups of tiny people playing games or working at ancient machinery. Sets of furniture, of silver or gold filigree, and silver boxes of bewildering and intricate charm.

      There was a silver skewer, a foot long, plain, with a ring fixed in the end for utility, that might once have been used in the kitchen of some lordly manor or regal palace. Fascinating bits, everywhere.

      Ramsay knew all of these by heart. Balfour knew well any of them in which he took a personal interest, and meant some day to purchase.

      A silence fell, as the two men hunted sedulously for the volumes they hoped to find. Both found it hard to resist the continual temptations to pause for a dip in this or that tempting volume or brochure, but both put aside the thought and worked diligently.

      At last Ramsay found a book that made him open his eyes wide. It was not a very large volume, and it was labelled Taxation in Great Britain and America. He glanced across the room at Balfour, and saw only his back, the book-lover being absorbed in a volume he was scanning.

      Ramsay slipped the book he had discovered into the sidepocket of his topcoat, which he had not removed, as the place was chilly. After which, he went on with his search, noting that Balfour was still engrossed in reading.

      Suddenly, the lights went out and the room was in black darkness. Ramsay turned and stumbled in the direction of Balfour.

      It was some time later that Keith Ramsay sat down at Sewell’s desk and took up the telephone.

      He tried, and successfully, to control his voice as he said:

      ‘Give me Police Headquarters.’

      The response came duly, and it was swiftly arranged that Inspector Manton, with a detective from the Homicide Bureau and others would arrive as soon as possible.

      Then Ramsay called Sewell at his home.

      ‘No,’ Mrs Sewell told him, ‘John isn’t home. Anything wrong?’

      This question Ramsay ignored and said:

      ‘Do you know where Mr Sewell is? Can I get him? It’s rather important. Or do you know where Gill is?’

      ‘No, I don’t know anything about Preston. But you may find Mr Sewell at the Balfour home. I think he intended to go there this evening. Who is this? Where are you speaking from?’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Ramsay, briefly.

      He cradled the instrument and sat back in the swivel chair, looking deeply thoughtful and carefully avoiding any glance in the direction of Philip Balfour, who lay dead on the other side of the room.

      After a moment he took the telephone again, and called the Balfour home.

      ‘Potter,’ he said, as the butler responded, ‘don’t mention my name, understand?’

      ‘Yes, Mr—Yes, sir.’

      ‘That’s right. Is Mr Sewell there?’

      ‘Yes, sir, he is talking with Mrs Balfour.’

      ‘Ask him to take a telephone message on this extension. If he wants to know who’s calling, say you don’t know.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      And in a few moments Ramsay heard John Sewell’s voice inquiring as to his identity.

      ‘Keep quiet, Mr Sewell, don’t mention any name. But come down here to your shop right away. I can’t tell you on the telephone, but there’s serious trouble. Get here as soon as you can, but don’t breathe a word to Mrs Balfour. Tell her you’re called to the home of an important customer or something of that sort.’

      ‘All right, I get you. Be there in two jumps.’

      Sewell returned to the library where he had been sitting and told Mrs Balfour that he must hasten away on important business. He bade her good night in his courteous way and shook hands with Carl Swinton, another caller.

      ‘Glad I’m not leaving you quite alone, Mrs Balfour. When your husband returns, please tell him I will see him tomorrow about the Button book. He will be pleased, I know.’

      Sewell went away and strode down Park Avenue, then crossed over to Lexington.

      With his key, he entered his own front door, and finding the front room dark, went quickly through it to the lighted rear room.

      As he did so, the police arrived at the back door, which Ramsay opened to them.

      Sewell stared at the incoming visitors, stared

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