Read Murders in, Volume 2 for Free Online Page B

curtains of glazed flowery chintz admitted light on the east, south and west. A gray marble chimneypiece stood against the west wall. The other wall spaces were filled by gray-painted bookcases, each a little temple with fluted columns and pediment. Glass wall brackets held candles. There was an old French rug on the mirrorlike floor, and a portrait over the mantel represented a self-satisfied young man in a white wig, pointing to a row of lawbooks. His coat was blue, his buttons gilt; and his little finger displayed a ring with a big red stone in it.
    Old Mr. Vauregard came forward, a pleased smile on his face, and held out his hand. The original of the seal ring was on his little finger, and his long, narrow, high-nosed face looked like that of the portrait, grown old. His pale ivory skin was hardly lined, and his bright, dark eyes as clear as Gamadge’s own. He stooped a little—a tall man, he now seemed to be of little more than medium height. He was perfectly turned out in gray flannel trousers and a thin, unlined, woolen house jacket, russet-brown.
    â€œHow very pleasant this is,” he said. “Robina, my dear child, how did you persuade Mr. Gamadge?”
    â€œHe may not want to see the books, Uncle Imbrie,” replied Miss Vauregard, embracing her uncle affectionately, “but he does want to see the house—everybody does.”
    â€œAnd he shall see it. Sit down, Mr. Gamadge; or would you prefer to glance at my poor little collection, and get it over with, before we have our coffee?”
    â€œI’m afraid it can’t be much more than a glance, this afternoon, sir,” said Gamadge. “You’ll have to turn me loose in it some time when you can spare the library, if you want an opinion that’s worth anything.”
    â€œIt has only one merit.” His host led the way across the room to the bookcase on the right of the northeast window. “We Vauregards have never been great readers; but my great-great-grandfather brought these in this case from England with him, somewhere about the middle of the eighteenth century, and my great-grand-father bought what was known as a ‘gentleman’s library,’ the usual classics, and installed them with the others. Here they are, in the next sections. Then my grandfather built this house—we lived first on Battery Place, and this neighborhood was quite rural. He added to the library—not very wisely, I dare say. You’ll find plenty of rubbish. The point is that it’s a family collection, and will remain with the house when I die and turn it over to the public.”
    Gamadge passed from section to section of the bookcases, hands in pockets. He paused occasionally, and once or twice he asked to see a book.
    â€œCongratulations on your Early Americana,” he said. “Very nice, very complete. Lacks one or two of the most marketable items, I’m afraid.”
    They had reached the shelves, glassed as were all the others, which stood between the east windows. Gamadge paused, and Mr. Vauregard, hovering, showed signs of mild excitement. “American editions of English poets,” he said. “Worthless, I believe.”
    â€œUnless you have any association books among them.”
    â€œWell…I might say that I have.” Mr. Vauregard’s eye sought that of his niece. “Do you notice that little set—the Byron—which is so badly faded, except for one volume? Prettily gilded, isn’t it? That was a presentation set, but not presented by the author, I’m afraid!”
    Mr. Vauregard opened the glass door of the center compartment, and took Volume I down from the shelf. “Rather an amusing little family story connected with it—if you can bear family stories?”
    â€œThey are the breath of life to one of my profession, if they are in any way connected with books.”
    Miss Vauregard, looking rather bewildered, sat on the davenport beside the