THERE are persons for whom no shop has a greater attraction than a second-hand book-shop. It may be that they have a passion for collecting the old and rare, and love to turn over the well-thumbed, dusty volumes, in the hope of lighting upon a treasure in the form of a first edition, or a work long out of print. Or they may be drawn merely by a desire to acquire cheaply the coveted book which their poverty will not permit them to purchase fresh from the publisher. Whatever the nature of the attraction, the shop of Michael Betts, which stood a few years ago at the corner of a narrow, quiet street in Bloomsbury, had for such individuals, an irresistible fascination.
It was a small shop, but it had a high reputation of its kind, and its importance was not to be measured by its size. It lay several feet below the level of the street, and a flight of stone steps led down to the door. Every available inch of space within the shop was occupied by books. They crowded the shelves which lined the shop from floor to ceiling; they filled the storey above, and a great part of the tiny room at the back of the shop in which Michael took his meals; they overflowed into the street, and stood on a bench before the window, and were piled at the side of each step which led up to the pavement. They were books of all sorts and conditions, of various tongues and various styles.
