work lay in a library. “Ah, libraries are fine places,” said Mrs. Simpson, putting down her work with a sigh; “but for all that, books have played me a sad turn, or rather a book has.”
“Well, books give me my living, Mrs. Simpson, and I should be sorry to say a word against them: I don't like to hear that they have been bad for you.”
“Perhaps Mr. Garrett could help us to solve our puzzle, mother,” said Miss Simpson.
“I don't want to set Mr. Garrett off on a hunt that might waste a lifetime, my dear, nor yet to trouble him with our private affairs.”
“But if you think it in the least likely that I could be of use, I do beg you to tell me what the puzzle is, Mrs. Simpson. If it is finding out anything about a book, you see, I am in rather a good position to do it.”
“Yes, I do see that, but the worst of it is that we don't know the name of the book.”
“Nor what it is about?”
“No, nor that either.”
“Except that we don't think it's in English, mother—and that is not much of a clue.”
