“I didn’t,” he said at length. “It’s a copy—that’s all I paid for.” He turned back to his work, that of meticulously putting a small spot of book paste on the broken binding of a copy of The Duchess.
“Good piece of work,” approved Val, secretly pleased with himself for not having been deceived in the binding. It was a good piece of work; a dark blue morocco affair, gold tooled, with a coat of arms in the center, inlaid with red morocco. It was a rather gorgeous piece of work.
There was silence for a space, the crusty old bookseller seemingly intent on nothing but his work. He spoke at last, without turning; it was as if he were talking to the book in his hands, or to himself.
“People are like that,” he said. “At least, the people who drift in here—and most people do get in here at some time or other.”
“How do you mean?” asked Val, turning.
“Why, imitations,” he replied, shortly, as if annoyed that so plain a point should have been missed.
“There are lots of them. Beautiful and expensive—on the outside. They look like the real thing. Face and expression and manner and clothes. Inside they are—copies. Just imitation, that’s all.” He turned definitely to his work, dismissing the subject.
“Not referring to me, or anything like that?” smiled Val, but there was no answer. He knew, of course, that there was no reference to him. He and Masterson had been friends ever since Val had left college. He understood the cranky old bookseller better than perhaps any one else in the world, with the possible exception of Sam Peters, Masterson’s old clerk, who
