"I hope, my dear sir, you are speaking sincerely."
"Of course," replied Chester.
"Not as doctors sometimes do, to encourage their patients?"
"Certainly not," cried Chester. "There is every sign of a vigorous,
green old age about you."
"That is very pleasant to hear, my dear sir," said the old man, "very
pleasant. I don't think I am one ready to repine, or one who would seek
to live for selfish considerations--love of pleasure or the like--but I
have so much to do. I want years yet to complete my collection, and I
may have to go over to Leyden, Leipsic, Nuremberg, Florence, and several
of the other Continental towns which were the birthplaces of many of
these old tomes which you see upon my shelves."
"I see no reason why you should not live for years yet, sir," said
Chester, encouragingly.
"But my head--my brain. I find I grow forgetful, my dear sir. I put
away books and forget their places. All little symptoms, are they not,
of failing powers?"
"To be perfectly candid, certainly they are," said Chester; "but in a
healthy old age these failings come very, very gradually, and nature
suggests so many ways of palliating them. For instance, a clever young
secretary with a methodical turn of mind would relieve you of a trouble
like this. Really I do not think that you have any occasion to trouble
yourself about such a symptom as that, any more than you have about the
failing powers of sight which compelled you to take to glasses."
"My dear young friend!" cried the old man, leaning forward to catch at
his visitor's hand, "I cannot find words to express my gratitude. You
do not know what a relief your words have been to me. It is wonderful,
and upon such a casual acquaintanceship. But I sincerely hope that you
will let me see more of you--er--that is, if I am not troublesome to
you; such a wearisome old bookworm as I fear I must be. But the mouse
helped the lion, you know, and who knows but what I may be able to help
you with some information about your friends next door--let me see, I
think you said it was the people next door whom you had been trying to
find."
"I did not say so," said Chester, quietly.
"I beg your pardon; but you do wish to know something about them."
"Well, frankly, yes, I do," said Chester.
"Hah! And who knows but what I may be able to help you? I may remember
something that does not occur to me now--a trifle or two perhaps, but
which may be of importance from your point of view. Come and see me
sometimes. Let me show you my library. I think you might be interested
in some of my books."
"I have no doubt but that I should be."
"To be sure, yes. I have an old copy of Hippocrates on surgery and
medicine, and I daresay many others which do not occur to me now. Yes,
of course, I have Boerhaave. You will come?"
"I shall be very glad to," said Chester, warmly, though his conscience
smote him for what he felt to be a false pretence.
"I am very, very glad," said the old man, rising, going to an old
cabinet and pulling out a drawer, from which he took a key and at the
same time something short and black which he cleverly thrust into the
breast of his loosely-made, old-fashioned tail-coat. "Now I am about to
ask a favour of you, doctor," he said, turning with a pleasant, genial
smile upon his countenance. "I have other treasures here down below,
besides books. Stored up and rarely brought out, bin after bin of very
fine old wine. I am going to ask you to drink a glass of exceedingly
old port with me."
"No, no," said Chester, "you must excuse me. I never drink wine at this
time of day. Let me dine with you some time or other, and then--"
"Yes, of course, my dear young friend; I hope many times; but just one
glass now. Don't say no. I feel to need it a little myself, for--don't
think me a feeble old dotard--the fact of telling you of my weakness, of
confessing to a doctor my fears of coming to an end, have upset my
nerves a little, and I can't help fancying that a glass of good old wine
would do me good."
"I am sure it would, sir," said Chester, warmly. "Well, there! I will
break a rule, and join you in one glass."
"Hah!" cried the old man, brightening up; "that is very good of you,
doctor--very good. I feel better already in anticipation. Now, let me
see--let me see."
He opened the library table drawer and took out a box of matches and an
old-fashioned, curled-up twist of wax taper, such as was the
accompaniment of a writing-table in sealing-wax days, fifty years or so
ago. This latter he lit, and then hung a large old key upon his little
finger.
"The library next time you come, doctor; the cellar this time. A very
fine cellar of wines, my dear sir, but wasted upon me. Just a glass now
and then as a medicine. This way. I hope you will not mind the dust
and cobwebs. An old-fashioned notion, but books seem to need the dust
of ages, and it is precious upon them, just as old port ought to have
its cobwebs and its crust. You will come with me to get a bottle?"
"Oh yes," said Chester, and he followed the old man out of the room into
the book-encumbered hall, and along to the back, past chest and shelf,
to where there was the glass door opening on the stone flight leading
down into the basement.
"This way, my dear sir. One moment; there should be a basket here.
Yes, here we are; would you mind lighting me? Thank you."
Chester took the wax taper and lighted the old man, while he took down
from behind the glass door, where it hung upon a hook, one of those
cradle-like baskets in which a bottle of rich old wine can recline
without destroying its fineness.
"You see," said the old man, "I am a bit of a connoisseur. I like to
keep my wine as it has lain in the bin. No decanting for me. Straight
on down, my dear sir."
Chester did not hesitate, but led on down the stone stairs, holding the
light on high, the tiny taper shining back upon a pair of flashing eyes
and the wrinkles of a now wonderfully wrinkled face, while in the
shadows behind a thin, claw-like hand glided to the breast-pocket of the
old-fashioned coat, to draw out one of those misnamed weapons formed of
twisted whalebone, ending in a weighty leaden knob.
Chester bore the light; behind him seemed to hover upon the dingy walls
the Shadow of Death.