“Leave it alone,” said Lestrange. “I must ask some one. The treatment is too dangerous.”
“Excuse me, sir; the treatment is by no means dangerous. After this bath, I shall take it through one of thin size, to help the paper to hold together. The book has suffered much, both from damp and insects.”
“No matter!” answered Lestrange imperiously. “I will not have you meddle further with that volume.—Would you believe it, Hardy,” he went on, turning to the curate, “it is that translation of Ovid he is experimenting upon!”
“I beg your pardon, I am not experimenting,” said Richard.
“I hardly think it is such a very rare book!” replied the curate. “I believe it could be replaced!”
“Ah, you don't know, I see! I thought I had shown you!” returned Lestrange excitedly. “Look there!”
He pointed to the title-page, which was lying on the table.
“I see!” said Hardy. “It is a first edition—in black letter—of Arthur Golding's Ovid!”
“But you don't look! Why don't you look? Have you no eyes for that faded ink just under the title?”
“Why! What's this? Gul. Shaksper!—Is it possible!”