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 the educational department in the basement, up to the medical books in the gallery, even back to the sections of Drama and Pennsylvania History in the raised quarterdeck at the rear. There was no trace of Roger.

At a desk under the stairway he saw a lean, studious, and kindly-looking bibliosoph, who was poring over an immense catalogue. An idea struck him.

"Have you a copy of Carlyle's Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell?" he asked.

The other looked up.

"I'm afraid we haven't," he said. "Another gentleman was in here asking for it just a few minutes ago."

"Good God!" cried Aubrey. "Did he get it?"

This emphasis brought no surprise to the bookseller, who was accustomed to the oddities of edition hunters.

"No," he said. "We didn't have a copy. We haven't seen one for a long time."

"Was he a little bald man with a red beard and bright blue eyes?" asked Aubrey hoarsely.

"Yes—Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn. Do you know him?"

"I should say I do!" cried Aubrey. "Where has he gone? I've been hunting him all over town, the scoundrel!"