His quick glance, thrown here and there absorbingly, convinced him that there were at least five thousand volumes in the cases, a magnificent private collection, considering that the owner was not a lawyer, and that these books were not dry and musty precedents from the courts of appeals and supreme.
He was glad to see that some of his old friends were here, too, and that the shelves were not wholly given over to piracy.

What a hobby to follow! What adventures all within thirty square feet! And a shiver passed over his spine as he saw several tattered black flags hanging from the walls; the real articles, too, now faded to a rusty brown.
Over what smart and lively heeled brigs had they floated, these sinister jolly rogers?
For in a room like this they could not be other than genuine.

All his journalistic craving for stories awakened.
Behind a broad, flat, mahogany desk, with a green-shaded student lamp at his elbow, sat a bright-cheeked, white-haired man, writing.
Fitzgerald instantly recognized him.

Abruptly his gaze returned to the girl.

Yes, now he knew.