"What name shall I say?"
"Mr. Mifflin--Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn."
"Have you an appointment?"
"Yes."
Roger sat down with agreeable antic.i.p.ation. He noticed the shining mahogany of the office furniture, the sparkling green jar of drinking water, the hushed and efficient activity of the young ladies.
"Philadelphia girls are amazingly comely," he said to himself, "but none of these can hold a candle to Miss t.i.tania."
The young lady returned from the private office looking a little perplexed.
"Did you have an appointment with Mr. Oldham?" she said. "He doesn"t seem to recall it."
"Why, certainly," said Roger. "It was arranged by telephone on Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Mr. Oldham"s secretary called me up."
"Have I got your name right?" she asked, showing a slip on which she had written Mr. Miflin.
"Two f"s," said Roger. "Mr. Roger Mifflin, the bookseller."
The girl retired, and came back a moment later.
"Mr. Oldham"s very busy," she said, "but he can see you for a moment."
Roger was ushered into the private office, a large, airy room lined with bookshelves. Mr. Oldham, a tall, thin man with short gray hair and lively black eyes, rose courteously from his desk.
"How do you do, sir," he said. "I"m sorry, I had forgotten our appointment."
"He must be very absent minded," thought Roger. "Arranges to sell a collection worth half a million, and forgets all about it."
"I came over in response to your message," he said. "About selling your collection."
Mr. Oldham looked at him, rather intently, Roger thought.
"Do you want to buy it?" he said.
"To buy it?" said Roger, a little peevishly. "Why, no. I came over to appraise it for you. Your secretary telephoned me on Sat.u.r.day."
"My dear sir," replied the other, "there must be some mistake. I have no intention of selling my collection. I never sent you a message."
Roger was aghast.
"Why," he exclaimed, "your secretary called me up on Sat.u.r.day and said you particularly wanted me to come over this morning, to examine your books with you. I"ve made the trip from Brooklyn for that purpose."
Mr. Oldham touched a buzzer, and a middle-aged woman came into the office. "Miss Patterson," he said, "did you telephone to Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn on Sat.u.r.day, asking him----"
"It was a man that telephoned," said Roger.
"I"m exceedingly sorry, Mr. Mifflin," said Mr. Oldham. "More sorry than I can tell you--I"m afraid someone has played a trick on you. As I told you, and Miss Patterson will bear me out, I have no idea of selling my books, and have never authorized any one even to suggest such a thing."
Roger was filled with confusion and anger. A hoax on the part of some of the Corn Cob Club, he thought to himself. He flushed painfully to recall the simplicity of his glee.
"Please don"t be embarra.s.sed," said Mr. Oldham, seeing the little man"s vexation. "Don"t let"s consider the trip wasted. Won"t you come out and dine with me in the country this evening, and see my things?"
But Roger was too proud to accept this balm, courteous as it was.
"I"m sorry," he said, "but I"m afraid I can"t do it. I"m rather busy at home, and only came over because I believed this to be urgent."
"Some other time, perhaps," said Mr. Oldham. "Look here, you"re a bookseller? I don"t believe I know your shop. Give me your card. The next time I"m in New York I"d like to stop in."
Roger got away as quickly as the other"s politeness would let him. He chafed savagely at the awkwardness of his position. Not until he reached the street again did he breathe freely.
"Some of Jerry Gladfist"s tomfoolery, I"ll bet a hat," he muttered.
"By the bones of f.a.n.n.y Kelly, I"ll make him smart for it."
Even Aubrey, picking up the trail again, could see that Roger was angry.
"Something"s got his goat," he reflected. "I wonder what he"s peeved about?"
They crossed Broad Street and Roger started off down Chestnut. Aubrey saw the bookseller halt in a doorway to light his pipe, and stopped some yards behind him to look up at the statue of William Penn on the City Hall. It was a bl.u.s.tery day, and at that moment a gust of wind whipped off his hat and sent it spinning down Broad Street. He ran half a block before he recaptured it. When he got back to Chestnut, Roger had disappeared. He hurried down Chestnut Street, b.u.mping pedestrians in his eagerness, but at Thirteenth he halted in dismay.
Nowhere could he see a sign of the little bookseller. He appealed to the policeman at that corner, but learned nothing. Vainly he scoured the block and up and down Juniper Street. It was eleven o"clock, and the streets were thronged.
He cursed the book business in both hemispheres, cursed himself, and cursed Philadelphia. Then he went into a tobacconist"s and bought a packet of cigarettes.
For an hour he patrolled up and down Chestnut Street, on both sides of the way, thinking he might possibly encounter Roger. At the end of this time he found himself in front of a newspaper office, and remembered that an old friend of his was an editorial writer on the staff. He entered, and went up in the elevator.
He found his friend in a small grimy den, surrounded by a sea of papers, smoking a pipe with his feet on the table. They greeted each other joyfully.
"Well, look who"s here!" cried the facetious journalist. "Tamburlaine the Great, and none other! What brings you to this distant outpost?"
Aubrey grinned at the use of his old college nickname.
"I"ve come to lunch with you, and borrow enough money to get home with."
"On Monday?" cried the other. "Tuesday being the day of stipend in these quarters? Nay, say not so!"
They lunched together at a quiet Italian restaurant, and Aubrey narrated tersely the adventures of the past few days. The newspaper man smoked pensively when the story was concluded.
"I"d like to see the girl," he said. "Tambo, your tale hath the ring of sincerity. It is full of sound and fury, but it signifieth something. You say your man is a second-hand bookseller?"
"Yes."
"Then I know where you"ll find him."
"Nonsense!"
"It"s worth trying. Go up to Leary"s, 9 South Ninth. It"s right on this street. I"ll show you."
"Let"s go," said Aubrey promptly.