from half the bookshops in Europe; and there were huge folios like Prussian grenadiers; and tiny Elzevirs, which had been read by patrician ladies in Venice. Just as Arthur was a different man in the operating theatre, Dr. Porhoët was changed among his books. Though he preserved the amiable serenity which made him always so attractive, he had there a diverting brusqueness of demeanour, which contrasted quaintly with his usual calm.
“I was telling these young people, when you came in, of an ancient Koran which I was given in Alexandria by a learned man whom I operated upon for cataract.” He showed her a beautifully-written Arabic work, with wonderful capitals and headlines in gold. “You know that it is almost impossible for an infidel to acquire the holy book, and this is a particularly rare copy, for it was written by Kait Bey, the greatest of the Mameluke Sultans.”
He handled the delicate pages as a lover of flowers would handle rose-leaves.
“And have you much literature on the occult sciences?” asked Susie.
Dr. Porhoët smiled.
“I venture to think that no private library contains so complete a collection, but I dare not show it to you in the presence of our friend Arthur. He is too polite to accuse me of foolishness, but his sarcastic smile would betray him.”
Susie went to the shelves to which he vaguely waved, and looked with a peculiar excitement at the mysterious array. She ran her eyes along the names. It seemed to her that she was entering upon
