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faraway and sad, and there was a quiver of doubt — or defeat — in his voice.
    Blake tried to block out the memory.   The lodge was a short distance ahead and he sprinted towards it.
     
    A
     
    A man with dark curly hair had arrived moments before him.   Dressed in a   black leather jacket that made a crunchy sound when he moved, he sauntered up to the main counter and deposited an iridescent green helmet, like a decapitated head, on its surface.
    The porter was busy slipping letters into a number of pigeon-holes on the wall behind him and signaled the motorcyclist to wait.
    Drumming his fingers on the countertop, the visitor turned to survey the room.
    Blake, streaking past a pile of suitcases near the door, met the stranger's cool, confident gaze and skidded to a halt.   He looked away in confusion and went over to check a laminated sign that had caught his eye.   It had been created on a special notice board in the corner.
    The poster welcomed members of the Ex Libris Society to its annual conference, to be held conjointly at St. Jerome's and
All
Souls
Colleges
throughout the week, and featured a prominent image of an enormous Bible on a fancy wooden desk.   A caption at the bottom read:   "Notable speakers to include Sir Giles Bentley, Whose Mortal Taste?   First Editions & Forbidden Fruit and Prosper Marchand , Gutenberg's Dying Words:   The E-book and the Virtual Library ."
    Blake was reminded of the blank book he had found in the college library and wondered whether this could be of any interest to the society.   Probably not, he gathered, judging from the lavish tome on the poster:   that book had a burnished silver binding, inlaid with rubies and pearls, whereas his own had a broken clasp and moldering brown cover.
    He was interrupted in his reverie by Bob Barrett, the porter, who had finished sorting through the post and turned to greet the visitors.   "Right," he said.   "Sorry about the delay.   And you, sir, are...?"
    "Professor Prosper Marchand ," responded the man, as though he needed no introduction.
    Blake whirled round.   Sure enough, the man in the leather jacket matched the name on the poster.   He had been watching Blake with an amused expression and now winked.   Blake blushed.
    "And this," continued Prosper Marchand , indicating a tall, birdlike woman who had entered behind them, "is Dr. Adrienne de Jonghe of the Coster Institute in Holland.   We're members of the Ex Libris Society."
    "Dr. deJonghe waded on stork-thin legs in front of Blake and shook hands with the professor.
    The porter, all smiles, asked the visitors to sign a register in front of them and then handed them each a clear plastic folder containing various conference materials and a guide to the college, on which he had marked the shortest routes to their rooms.   Finally, he told them the access code to the library and other main buildings, before passing them their keys.   The professors promptly gathered their things and left.
    The porter let out a sigh as soon as the door was closed.   "Goodness, Blake, they've been arriving all day, they have.   From all over the world.   I've been run off my feet.   Who'd have thought so many people would be interested in a few books?"
    Blake was gazing out of the window.   He could see the Dutch scholar bending down to stroke Mephistopheles, who curled seductively around her legs, but Prosper Marchand was nowhere to be seen.   An engine soon revved in the street, however, and roared into the distance.
    Bob was a short, stocky man in his mid-fifties, with just a smudge of a mustache beneath his nose.   His shirtsleeves had been rolled up to reveal a dragon tattoo on one wrist and a spinach-green anchor on the other.   He rubbed his hands together and grinned at the boy.   "Now then, Blake, what can I do for you?"
    Blake glanced wistfully at the pigeonholes behind the counter.   "Is there a letter for me?" he asked, suddenly feeling hesitant and shy.
    Even though his