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and
     gradually eased apart. She looked back at him as she went
     through the outer door. He was watching her with an unreadable
     look on his face, his dark eyes glinting in the lamplight.

 
    5.The Porteous Library

 
    On Monday, she
     had an appointment with a Mr. Porteous, who happened to own a
     great many books from the libraries of the famous. Mr. Porteous
     and his collection resided in a palatial house in Knightsbridge,
     one of the swankier London neighborhoods. She was shown into a
     reception room by a woman in a black suit, about her own age,
     who appeared to be a female butler. In the center of the room
     was a round table topped by an elaborate flower arrangement, and
     the floors were of marble pieced together in an intricate
     design. A few uncomfortable yet expensive-looking side chairs
     were distributed about the room; one wall had a bay window, and
     another held a massive abstract painting in a lacquered frame.

 
    After a few
     minutes a tall man strode in, his hand extended. "Miss
     Livingston? I'm Hamish Porteous. My father is Alexander
     Porteous. I regret to say he is indisposed, but he asked me to
     show you the collection." He took her hand in an unnecessarily
     vise-like grip. His blond hair swept like a wave over his
     forehead, complementing his piercing blue eyes and straight,
     sharp nose. He's very good-looking, she thought.

 
    Hamish took her a
     few steps down the hallway to the library, which was beautifully
     appointed in a contemporary style, with light oak shelving, and
     a long, heavy slab of distressed blond wood that looked like a
     relic of some ancient Anglo-Saxon feast hall, arranged over
     industrial-looking metal supports. A few sleek easy chairs with
     lamps and ottomans beckoned. The library window was covered with
     tightly shut blinds, which was appropriate for the storage of
     rare books.

 
    "Will you be in
     London for long?"

 
    "Until the first
     week of September."

 
    "My father spoke
     very highly of your letters of introduction. One of them is from
     a very old and dear friend of his. They both feel that your
     study of the collection could lead to publications that will
     considerably enhance its value. Please feel free to visit
     between the hours of nine and one any weekday and Charlotte will
     attend to you. Our only request is that you not wander about
     unescorted, as this is a private residence."

 
    "Thank you. I'm
     very grateful for the opportunity, and I hope to have a chance
     to meet your father one day." He nodded, but didn't say whether
     he thought that such a meeting would happen. "I'll leave you to
     it, then. There's a catalog of the collection on the table. When
     you're ready, ring" --he pointed to an old-fashioned bell pull--
     "and Charlotte will show you out."

 
    Alexander
     Porteous was a friend of her old mentor and professor, Dr. John
     Tiernan. Tiernan was in his eighties now (as was Porteous), but
     when he had learned of her project, he was anxious to ensure
     that she had access to Porteous' library. "He's been collecting
     the good stuff for several decades," Tiernan had said. "You'll
     be floored when you see it. Not a large collection, but every
     item is choice."

 
    She took a deep
     breath, savoring the scent of the leather-bound books. She set
     her bag down on the library table and extracted her laptop, her
     notebook and a mechanical pencil. One never used pens when
     working with rare books. She picked up the catalog, a volume
     that had been privately printed and beautifully bound in navy
     morocco with gold tooling. Soon she was immersed in the contents
     of Alexander Porteous' library, which were very impressive
     indeed.

 
    After about an
     hour, a slight noise at the door caused her to glance up. A
     beautiful woman in her thirties stood there. She was leaning
     against the door frame staring dreamily at Laura, the side of
     her face flush with the molding of the door. With her long,
     blonde