On Sunday I
went down to Oxford, and happened to walk into Allen's rooms. He was
lying on a sofa reading the "Spectator." After chatting a little, I
said, "You took no notice of me, nor of the Bretons yesterday, Allen, at
Blocksby's."
"I didn't see you," he said; and as he was speaking there came a knock at
the door.
"Come in!" cried Allen, and a man entered who was a stranger to me. You
would not have called him a gentleman perhaps. However, I admit that I
am possibly no great judge of a gentleman.
Allen looked up.
"Hullo, Mr. Thomas," he said, "have you come up to see Mr. Mortby?"
mentioning a well-known Oxford bibliophile. "Wharton," he went on,
addressing me, "this is Mr. Thomas from Blocksby's." I bowed. Mr.
Thomas seemed embarrassed. "Can I have a word alone with you, sir?" he
murmured to Allen.
"Certainly," answered Allen, looking rather surprised. "You'll excuse me
a moment, Wharton," he said to me. "Stop and lunch, won't you? There's
the old 'Spectator' for you;" and he led Mr. Thomas into a small den
where he used to hear his pupils read their essays, and so forth.
In a few minutes he came out, looking rather pale, and took an
embarrassed farewell of Mr. Thomas.
"Look here, Wharton," he said to me, "here is a curious business. That
fellow from Blocksby's tells me that the Longepierre Theocritus
disappeared yesterday afternoon; that I was the last person in whose hand
it was seen, and that not only the man who always attends in the room but
Lord Tarras and Mr.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132