I invited him in, pointing to a chair. He paused awhile before speaking. A kind of gloom emanated from him--as it does now from me.

"I sell Bibles," he said.

Somewhat pedantically, I replied, "In this house are several English bibles, including the first--John Wiclif's. I also have Cipriano de Valera's, Luther's--which, from a literary viewpoint, is the worst--and a Latin copy of the Vulgate. As you see, it's not exactly Bibles I stand in need of."

After a few moments of silence, he said, "I don't only sell Bibles. I can show you a holy book I came across on the outskirts of Bikaner. It may interest you."

He opened the suitcase and laid the book on a table. It was an octavo volume, bound in cloth. There was no doubt that it had passed through many hands. Examining it, I was surprised by its unusual weight. On the spine were the words "Holy Writ" and, below them, "Bombay."

"Nineteenth century, probably," I remarked.

"I don't know," he said. "I've never found out."