romping with squalling children in the library of the Museum. I was anything rather than a quiet sleeper. O, old man! methought, why did I not fix my quarters at K. 16? Perhaps there I might never have encountered you.
Morning dawned—or tried to dawn—through the mist of London, and I was soon on my way to Bloomsbury. I entered the Museum with a strange sense of depression, and set to work. The books I was consulting were spread without delay on the leather of D. 7. D. 8 was empty. It chanced that I had to use a foreign dictionary, whose place was on the other side of the room. I rose, leaving my papers in my place, and was absent perhaps ten minutes. To those of my readers who have never seen the Museum Library I must explain, that the double rows of seats radiate from the centre, where are the catalogues, to the circumference, where are the books of reference. These latter are under a slightly projecting gallery. It will be evident that there is less light, but more quiet, in the seats near the wall. Passers-by are most frequent in the neighbourhood of the catalogues. It will be equally evident that on approaching one’s seat from the opposite side of the room it is never possible to see it from a distance. The raised circle of attendants in the centre of the circles of catalogues prevent a diametrical transit. It is not till one’s own row, and one’s own side of one’s own row is reached, that one can see one’s own seat. D. 7 is remote from the catalogues, and only separated from the wall of circumference by D. 8.
No sooner had I reached the upper end of the row D. than I perceived that D. 8 was occupied. For a moment I merely saw an occupant. A step forward and I saw more. It was occupied by the old man!
At first I was too stupefied to be horrified. Was I still dreaming? It was absurd! A spectre in the heart of Bloomsbury in 1861! The familiar room was round me, with its big dome of blue and warm walls of polychrome bindings. There were the familiar faces of the servants; and ever and anon there sounded the familiar clang of the book-rests. What a singular optical delusion! To be accounted for, no doubt, by the events of the preceding day—not forgetting the venison of the evening. So I walked on to my place, and, though a strange tremor thrilled through my bones, took my seat on my chair.
There was no doubt about the verisimilitude of the appearance. There was the picturesque grey head, tapering down to the longest hair of the long scattered beard. There was the thin, worn face, seeming like the case of some old lantern, through which blazed the two bright eyes. There were the weak, transparent fingers; and there—what new phantasmagoria did I behold?—there on the table lay the four old books that I had last seen under the temporary keeping of the old man. Spell-bound I watched, but did not dare to try to touch. There was no palsy in the hands, but they wandered over the table, uneasy and restless. They seemed to seek something, and to seek in vain. The books were open, but the old man was doing nothing. Doing nothing? How could he? In an instant the MS. in my pocket flashed across my recollection. Was this what the spectre sought? With little reflection on what I was doing, and with my brain in a strange whirl of wonder and doubt, I pulled forth the papers, and placed them on the edge of the table of D. 8. Instantly they were seized. The face seemed to light up with a glance of satisfaction, but the eyes never turned to me. They were fixed intently on the book. Still “in amazement lost,” I looked, and saw the old man rapidly and eagerly begin to write.
Then the first terror that had seized me fled, and I returned with shame to my reason. We had, doubtless, been mistaken. My friend had been too hurried in his verdict of death. The old man was only stunned, and was back again at his work. No doubt he was indignant with me for my intrusion on his privacy, and would not even thank me for the service I had done him. I began to whisper explanation and apology. Not a word did the old man answer. Not for an instant did the eyes turn from the page on which the lines of words were growing. I got up and went to inquire of the porter at the door of the inner passage if he had seen the old man enter, and if so, at what time.
“Old man? Old man in a shabby coat? Run over yesterday? yes, I know him, and I’ve heard of the accident. He has been here regularly for the last six months. He’ll never come again, though, poor old gentleman.”
“Have you seen him come in this morning?”
“Come in this morning? He was killed, sir, yesterday. You must have missed him.”
“He is in the room now.”
The man grinned, and looked at me inquiringly.
“Impossible, sir. There’s many like him. You must be wrong.”
I went straight back to the attendant who gives out the reserved books, and never turned my head in the direction of Row D.
“Have you seen the old man this morning who generally sits at D. 8, Mr. Smith?”
“Yes, sir, he was here about a quarter of an hour ago, asking for his books.”
Then I went back to Row D. There was no one sitting at No. 8. There were the musty folios, and there was the book of MS. lying wide open, and I saw that the ink upon the page was wet; but there was no old man. “Finis” was written at the bottom of the page. His work was done now, wherever he himself had gone.
I hurried back to the porter at the door.
“Be sure you stop that old man if he goes by.’
The man looked at me with a meaning glance. He evidently was sceptical as to my sanity. Was I mad? I replaced the MS. in my pocket, and hurried from the building. My head was burning, my hands were trembling. I was strangely excited, and felt almost inclined to agree with the porter. I must be mad.
I hurried to my friend the surgeon.
“Nonsense, nonsense, my dear fellow; I can explain it in a moment. You are of a nervous temperament. Your mind has been full of this old man for days. You were very much excited by the accident yesterday. You ate much too good a dinner. You go to the Museum, and you