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Glossom, England.
    â€œIs it—?” said Mr. Berger. “I mean, can it—?”
    The old gentleman gently removed the volume from Mr. Berger’s hands and put it back in its place on the shelf.
    â€œIndeed,” said the gentleman.
    He was looking at Mr. Berger a little more thoughtfully than before, as though his visitor’s obvious appreciation for the books had prompted a reassessment of his probable character.
    â€œIt’s in rather good company as well,” he said.
    He gestured expansively at the rows of shelves. They stretched into the gloom, for the yellow lights had not come on in the farther reaches of the library. There were also doors leading off to the left and right. They were set into the main walls, but Mr. Berger had seen no doors when he had first examined the building. They could have been bricked up, but he had found no evidence of that, either.
    â€œAre they all first editions?” he asked.
    â€œFirst editions, or manuscript copies. First editions are fine for our purposes, though. Manuscripts are merely a bonus.”
    â€œI should like to look, if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Berger. “I won’t touch any more of them. I’d just like to see them.”
    â€œLater, perhaps,” said the gent. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
    Mr. Berger swallowed. He had not spoken aloud of his encounters since the unfortunate conversation with Inspector Carswell on that first night.
    â€œWell,” he said, “I saw a woman commit suicide in front of a train, and then some time later I saw her try to do the same thing again, but I stopped her. I thought she might have come in here. In fact, I’m almost certain that she did.”
    â€œThat is unusual,” said the gent.
    â€œThat’s what I thought,” said Mr. Berger.
    â€œAnd do you have any idea of this woman’s identity?”
    â€œNot exactly,” said Mr. Berger.
    â€œWould you care to speculate?”
    â€œIt will seem odd.”
    â€œNo doubt.”
    â€œYou may think me mad.”
    â€œMy dear fellow, we hardly know each other. I wouldn’t dare to make such a judgment until we were better acquainted.”
    Which seemed fair enough to Mr. Berger. He had come this far: he might as well finish the journey.
    â€œIt did strike me that she might be Anna Karenina.” At the last minute, Mr. Berger hedged his bets. “Or a ghost, although she did appear remarkably solid for a spirit.”
    â€œShe wasn’t a ghost,” said the gent.
    â€œNo, I didn’t really believe so. There was the issue of her obvious substantiality. I suppose you’ll tell me now that she wasn’t Anna Karenina, either.”
    The old gent tugged at his mustache again. His face betrayed his thoughts as he carried on an internal debate.
    Finally, he said, “No, in all good conscience I cannot deny that she is Anna Karenina.”
    Mr. Berger leaned in closer and lowered his voice significantly. “Is she a loony? You know, someone who thinks that she’s Anna Karenina?”
    â€œNo. You’re the one who thinks that she’s Anna Karenina, but she knows that she’s Anna Karenina.”
    â€œWhat?” said Mr. Berger, somewhat thrown by the reply. “So you mean she is Anna Karenina? But Anna Karenina is simply a character in a book by Tolstoy. She isn’t real.”
    â€œBut you just told me that she was.”
    â€œNo, I told you that the woman I saw seemed real.”
    â€œAnd that you thought she might be Anna Karenina.”
    â€œYes, but you see, it’s all very well saying that to oneself, or even presenting it as a possibility, but one does so in the hope that a more rational explanation might present itself.”
    â€œBut there isn’t a more rational explanation, is there?”
    â€œThere might be,” said Mr. Berger. “I just can’t think of one at