"Are we here," I ask, "by permission of Mr. Dunross?" The guide stares. If I had spoken to him in Greek or Hebrew, I could hardly have puzzled him more effectually. My friend tries him with a ******r form of words.
"Did you ask leave to bring us here when you found your way to the house?" The guide stares harder than ever, with every appearance of feeling perfectly scandalized by the question.
"Do you think," he asks, sternly, "'that I am fool enough to disturb the Master over his books for such a little matter as bringing you and your friend into this house?"
"Do you mean that you have brought us here without first asking leave?" I exclaim in amazement. The guide's face brightens; he has beaten the true state of the case into our stupid heads at last! "That's just what I mean!" he says, with an air of infinite relief. The door opens before we have recovered the shock inflicted on us by this extraordinary discovery. A little, lean, old gentleman, shrouded in a long black dressing-gown, quietly enters the room. The guide steps forward, and respectfully closes the door for him. We are evidently in the presence of The Master of Books!
