Hugh Matheson slid his arm across the back of Lynda’s chair as he leaned forward to whisper some sweet nothing. Pained, I looked around the room, making a little game out of seeing how many faces I recognized. There were quite a few: Kane, Queensbury, Crocker, Nakamora, the ineffable Professor Whippet...

“And in ‘A Scandal in Bohemia,’ ” Kate continued, “Watson reports that Holmes ‘never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer.’ Does that sound like a man purged of all emotions toward the opposite sex? On the contrary, Holmes displays quite a strong emotion - a negative one. Was he, then, a born misogynist as some would have us believe - or even a homosexual? I submit that the opposite is true. At some point in his unrecorded past Sherlock Holmes loved well but not wisely. He was, in short, ‘burned.’”

Now there was something I could relate to, I thought bitterly.

Kate went on to talk about Irene Adler (“the woman”), Mary Sutherland, Violet Hunter, and other strong females in the canon. She attributed their dynamic portrayals to the influence of Arthur Conan Doyle’s own strong-willed mother. Dr. Queensbury was just rising, apparently to object to this gratuitous reference to Conan Doyle, when I checked my watch again and saw that nearly half an hour had flown by and Kate’s talk was running over. If I didn’t make tracks I’d keep the man from the Library of Popular Culture waiting.

My brother-in-law, sitting near the lectern just across from where I was standing, seemed too engaged in the looming confrontation between his wife and Queensbury to notice my departure. In the corridor I thought I had gotten away clean until one of the voices I know best called after me. “Jeff!”

Lynda Teal.

I retracted my foot from the down escalator, almost slipping in the process.

For once Lynda looked slightly less than perfect, even to me. One or two strands of honey-colored hair were out of place and her blouse was disheveled. She was chewing gum. Still, I found myself having to fight off thoughts of a romantic and even biological nature.

“Where are you sneaking off to?” she demanded.

“The men’s room,” I said, the first thing that came into my head.

“Baloney. You don’t have to go downstairs for a john. Look, I saw you and Mac conniving during the last break. You two are up to something and I want to know what it is. It’s something about those stolen books, right?”

“So it’s not my rugged good looks or my charming personality that has you so interested in my activities all of a sudden. You’re just chasing a story.”

“Well, yeah. It’s what I do.” She leaned against the escalator. “I’m a journalist.”As if I needed reminding.

I shook my head sadly. “And to think we used to have such good times together.”

“Didn’t we, Jeff? And always I’ll remember. Now, what’s Mac got you doing this time?”

I snorted. “This is my game plan, not Mac’s.”

“Okay. What is it, then - a clue, a witness, a suspect?”

“Something like that. I’m supposed to meet a guy in-” I looked at my watch. “Damn. Ten minutes. I’ll never make it.”

“I’ll give you a ride. My car’ll get you wherever you’re going a lot faster than that bicycle of yours. You are still riding the bike everywhere you don’t walk, aren’t you?”

“Not everywhere. I still have the Beetle for trips over ten miles.” Even to me that sounded lame. I hurried on. “This is a solo venture, Lynda. Besides, you wouldn’t want to leave the great Hugh Matheson all alone, would you?”

“He’s got his ego to keep him company.”

“You didn’t seem to mind while you were sitting with him all day.”

“I was being polite.”

“Polite? He was whispering in your ear!”

“Yeah, mostly about his favorite subject - him.”

“This has been great, Lynda, but I really-”

“You have less time now than you did five minutes ago. How about that ride?”

The doors of the Hearth Room sprang open and people started pouring out. Matheson was near the head of the herd, busy bending Judge Crocker’s ear.

“Okay, okay,” I said, making the snap decision that put me right in the thick of the mess that followed. “Let’s just get out of here.”

We ran down the escalator to the main level of Muckerheide Center and out a side door to the campus street where Lynda’s yellow Mustang was illegally parked.

As soon as I got into the car, I noticed something different.

“Hey, it doesn’t smell like an ashtray anymore,” I said.

“I gave up smoking and took up running,” Lynda explained as she set her camera and purse on the floor behind the driver’s seat.

I stared at her. She studiously ignored me.

“That’s great,” I said finally. “Good for you. Why didn’t you do that all those years I was nagging you to?”

“Because you were nagging me to. Now, who is this guy you’re supposed to meet?”

While she drove the car and chewed a fresh stick of gum, I filled her in on Graham Bentley Post and his obsession to possess the Woollcott Chalmers Collection for his museum. By the time we reached the Sussex County Library, she knew as much about Post as I did.

The main branch happens to be on Mulberry Street, not Main. It’s an Andrew Carnegie library, a brick and stone structure built more than a hundred years ago and seemingly good for at least a hundred more.

From several blocks away I spotted the man pacing in front of the broad front steps. He was in his early fifties, medium height and build, with thick black hair, a gray mustache, and the chiseled features of a comic book superhero. Lynda parked in front of the fire hydrant and I hopped out.

“Thanks for the ride,” I told Lynda.

“Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not just your damned chauffeur.”

She got out of the car and scrambled after me. There was nothing I could do without creating a scene in front of Graham Bentley Post, assuming it was he.

“Mr. Post?” I said, approaching him with an extended hand. “I’m Thomas Jefferson Cody.”

Post was wearing a tailored blue suit without a single loose threat. He glanced at the slightly battered Mustang and then at me as if he doubted my statement, but he shook my hand anyway. I introduced Lynda as my associate.

“Partner,” she said firmly. Hey, I like the sound of that! Too bad you don’t really mean it; not the way I’d like.

Post skipped the small talk. “You are late, Mr. Cody. I can only trust that your arrival will prove worth waiting for. Let me be succinct: What kind of a deal can we cut that will put the Chalmers Collection into my hands?”

“We’re not-” Lynda began.

“We’re not sure what you have in mind,” I interrupted. “The college can never sell the Collection, of course. It was a gift.”

“Perhaps not,” Post conceded, fingering his mustache, “but with the right inducement - perhaps the promise of naming a small edifice on campus in his honor - Mr. Chalmers might be persuaded to withdraw his gift and sell it to the Library of Popular Culture at a handsome price.”

“And what would be in that for the college?” I asked.

“I believe I could arrange for another collection to be donated to St. Benignus, one with greater prestige and monetary value but of less interest to my institution.”

“Quite a scenario,” I said. “Machiavelli would be green with envy. You should bounce the idea off of our provost.”

Post looked at me as if he had smelled something bad and I was it. “You have no authority to negotiate?” “None.”

“Then you have wasted my time. We have nothing to discuss.” He started to walk away.

“I was hoping you could tell me - us - a little about the market for those parts of the collection that were stolen last night,” I called after him.

That stopped him cold. “Stolen? What the devil are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you read about it in the local paper this morning?” Lynda asked.