thought of what a business he had brought to the dry leaves of a library. The idea of introducing himself as a buyer of old editions danced a moment in his brain; but he had spent his life being himself with an intensity which defied the hope of dissimulation now. "I came to see you on business, Mr. Rader," he explained, "but not about a folio—in fact, not about books at all."
The scholar glanced wistfully toward the door which the woman had closed after her. "Then, perhaps you had better see Mrs. Rader," he began. "I—"
But Carron's wits were hard on Rader's second conclusion. "No, it isn't about the hotel either. I am afraid it is you yourself I want to see; but, if I disturb you now—"
The scholar made a deprecatory gesture. "I beg your pardon. Sit down. I am absent-minded, only that—Mr.—" he fumbled helplessly in his memory.
"Carron," the other prompted.
"Carron," Rader repeated, and moved his glasses down his forehead, clamping them upon the high bridge of his nose, and through these, considered the card. The owner of it watched him keenly, but undoubtedly that assemblage of letters on white paper held no idea for Rader beyond the fact that it was a name. With a faint sigh, he let himself stiffly down
31
