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last presented itself, Mr. Berger experienced a twinge of concern. The interior of the Caxton Library looked very dark, and who knew what might be waiting inside? He was throwing himself on the mercy of a possible madman, armed only with a hostage carpetbag. But he had come this far in his investigation, and he required an answer of some sort if he was ever to have peace of mind again. Still holding on to the carpetbag as though it were a swaddled infant, he stepped into the library.
IX
    Lights came on. They were dim, and the illumination they offered had a touch of jaundice to it, but they revealed lines of shelves stretching off into the distance, and that peculiar musty smell distinctive to rooms in which books are ageing like fine wines. To his left was an oak counter, and behind it cubbyholes filled with paperwork that appeared not to have been touched in many years, for a fine film of dust lay over it all. Beyond the counter was an open door, and through it Mr. Berger could see a small living area with a television, and the edge of a bed in an adjoining room.
    The old gent removed his hat, and his coat and scarf, and hung them on a hook by the door. Beneath them he was wearing a dark suit of considerable vintage, a white shirt, and a very wide gray-and-white-striped tie. He looked rather dapper, in a slightly decaying way. He waited patiently for Mr. Berger to begin, which Mr. Berger duly did.
    â€œLook,” said Mr. Berger, “I won’t have it. I simply won’t.”
    â€œWon’t have what?”
    â€œWomen throwing themselves under trains, then coming back and trying to do it again. It’s just not on. Am I making myself clear?”
    The elderly gentleman frowned. He tugged at one end of his mustache and sighed.
    â€œMay I have my bag back, please?” he asked.
    Mr. Berger handed it over, and the old man stepped behind the counter and placed the bag in the living room before returning. By this time, though, Mr. Berger, in the manner of bibliophiles everywhere, had begun to examine the contents of the nearest shelf. The shelves were organized alphabetically, and by chance Mr. Berger had started on the letter D . He discovered an incomplete collection of Dickens’s work, seemingly limited to the best known of the writer’s books. Our Mutual Friend was conspicuously absent, but Oliver Twist was present, as were David Copperfield , A Tale of Two Cities , The Pickwick Papers , and a handful of others. All of the editions looked very old. He took Oliver Twist from the shelf and examined its points. It was bound in brown cloth with gilt lettering, with the publisher’s imprint at the foot of the spine. The title page attributed the work to “Boz,” not Charles Dickens, indicating a very early edition, a fact confirmed by the name of the publisher and date of publication: Richard Bentley, London, 1838. Mr. Berger was holding the first edition, first issue of the novel.
    â€œPlease be careful with that,” said the old gent, who was hovering nervously nearby, but Mr. Berger had already replaced Oliver Twist and was now examining A Tale of Two Cities , perhaps his favorite novel by Dickens: Chapman & Hall, 1859, original red cloth. It was another first edition.
    But it was the volume marked The Pickwick Papers that constituted the greatest surprise. It was oversized and contained within it not a published copy but a manuscript. Mr. Berger knew that most of Dickens’s manuscripts were held by the Victoria and Albert Museum as part of the Forster Collection, for he had seen them when they were last on display. The rest were held by the British Library, the Wisbech Museum, and the Morgan Library in New York. Fragments of The Pickwick Papers formed part of the collection of the New York Public Library, but as far as Mr. Berger was aware, there was no complete manuscript of the book anywhere.
    Except, it seemed, in the Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository of