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husbands； and he knew the delights of cold provender by heart。 Many a
stewed prune； many a mess of string beans or naked cold boiled potato；
many a chicken leg； half apple pie； or sector of rice pudding； had perished
in these midnight festivals。 He made it a point of honour never to eat quite
all of the dish in question； but would pass with unabated zest from one to
another。 This habit he had sternly repressed during the war； but Mrs。
Mifflin had noticed that since the armistice he had resumed it with hearty
violence。 This is a custom which causes the housewife to be confronted
the next morning with a tragical vista of pathetic scraps。 Two slices of
beet in a little earthenware cup； a sliver of apple pie one inch wide； three
prunes lowly nestling in a mere trickle of their own syrup； and a
tablespoonful of stewed rhubarb where had been one of those yellow
basins nearly fullwhat can the most resourceful kitcheneer do with these
oddments？ This atrocious practice cannot be too bitterly condemned。
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But we are what we are； and Roger was even more so。 The Anatomy
of Melancholy always made him hungry； and he dipped discreetly into
various vessels of refreshment； sharing a few scraps with Bock whose
pleading brown eye at these secret suppers always showed a comical
realization of their shameful and furtive nature。 Bock knew very well
that Roger had no business at the ice…box； for the larger outlines of social
law upon which every home depends are clearly understood by dogs。 But
Bock's face always showed his tremulous eagerness to participate in the
sin； and rather than have him stand by as a silent and damning critic；
Roger used to give him most of the cold potato。 The censure of a dog is
something no man can stand。 But I rove； as Burton would say。
After the ice…box； the cellar。 Like all true householders； Roger was
fond of his cellar。 It was something mouldy of smell； but it harboured a
well…stocked little bin of liquors； and the florid glow of the furnace mouth
upon the concrete floor was a great pleasure to the bookseller。 He loved
to peer in at the dancing flicker of small blue flames that played above the
ruddy mound of coals in the fireboxtenuous； airy little flames that were
as blue as violets and hovered up and down in the ascending gases。 Before
blackening the fire with a stoking of coal he pulled up a wooden
Bushmills box； turned off the electric bulb overhead； and sat there for a
final pipe； watching the rosy shine of the grate。 The tobacco smoke； drawn
inward by the hot inhaling fire； seemed dry and gray in the golden
brightness。 Bock； who had pattered down the steps after him； nosed and
snooped about the cellar。 Roger was thinking of Burton's words on the
immortal weed
Tobacco； divine； rare； superexcellent tobacco； which goes far beyond
all the panaceas； potable gold； and philosopher's stones； a sovereign
remedy to all diseases。 。 。 。 a virtuous herb； if it be well qualified；
opportunely taken； and medicinally used； but as it is commonly abused by
most men； which take it as tinkers do ale； 'tis a plague； a mischief； a
violent purger of goods； lands； health； hellish； devilish； and damned
tobacco； the ruin and overthrow of body and soul
Bock was standing on his hind legs； looking up at the front wall of
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the cellar； in which two small irongrated windows opened onto the sunken
area by the front door of the shop。 He gave a low growl； and seemed
uneasy。
〃What is it； Bock？〃 said Roger placidly； finishing his pipe。
Bock gave a short； sharp bark； with a curious note of protest in it。 But
Roger's mind was still with Burton。
〃Rats？〃 he said。 〃Aye； very likely！ This is Ratisbon； old man； but
don't bark about it。 Incident of the French Camp： ‘Smiling； the rat fell
dead。'〃
Bock paid no heed to this persiflage； but prowled the front end of the
cellar； looking upward in curious agitation。 He growled again； softly。
〃Shhh；〃 said Roger gently。 〃Never mind the rats； Bock。 Come on；
we'll stoke up the fire and go to bed。 Lord； it's one o'clock。〃
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Chapter XI
Titania Tries Reading in Bed
Aubrey； sitting at his window with the opera glasses； soon realized
that he was blind weary。 Even the exalted heroics of romance are not
proof against fatigue； most potent enemy of all who do and dream。 He had
had a long day； coming after the skull…smiting of the night before； it was
only the frosty air at the lifted sash that kept him at all awake。 He had
fallen into a half drowse when he heard footsteps coming down the
opposite side of the street。
He had forced himself awake several times before； to watch the
passage of some harmless strollers through the innocent blackness of the
Brooklyn night； but this time it was what he sought。 The man stepped
stealthily； with a certain blend of wariness and assurance。 He halted
under the lamp by the bookshop door； and the glasses gave him enlarged
to Aubrey's eye。 It was Weintraub； the druggist。
The front of the bookshop was now entirely dark save for a curious
little glimmer down below the pavement level。 This puzzled Aubrey； but
he focussed his glasses on the door of the shop。 He saw Weintraub pull a
key out of his pocket； insert it very carefully in the lock； and open the door
stealthily。 Leaving the door ajar behind him； the druggist slipped into the
shop。
〃What devil's business is this？〃 thought Aubrey angrily。 〃The swine
has even got a key of his own。 There's no doubt about it。 He and Mifflin
are working together on this job。〃
For a moment he was uncertain what to do。 Should he run
downstairs and across the street？ Then； as he hesitated； he saw a pale
beam of light over in the front left…hand corner of the shop。 Through the
glasses he could see the yellow circle of a flashlight splotched upon dim
shelves of books。 He saw Weintraub pull a volume out of the case； and
the light vanished。 Another instant and the man reappeared in the
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doorway； closed the door behind him with a gesture of careful silence； and
was off up the street quietly and swiftly。 It was all over in a minute。 Two
yellow oblongs shone for a minute or two down in the area underneath the
door。 Through the glasses he now made out these patches as the cellar
windows。 Then they disappeared also； and all was placid gloom。 In the
quivering light of the street lamps he could see the bookseller's sign
gleaming whitely； with its lettering THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED。
Aubrey sat back in his chair。 〃Well；〃 he said to himself； 〃that guy
certainly gave his shop the right name。 This is by me。 I do believe it's
only some book…stealing game after all。 I wonder if he and Weintraub go
in for some first…edition faking； or some such stunt as that？ I'd give a lot
to know what it's all about。〃
He stayed by the window on the qui vive； but no sound broke the
stillness of Gissing Street。 In the distance he could hear the occasional
rumble of the Elevated trains rasping round the curve on Wordsworth
Avenue。 He wondered whether he ought to go over and break into the shop
to see if all was well。 But； like every healthy young man； he had a horror
of appearing absurd。 Little by little weariness numbed h