A TRIP TO LONDON
As soon as he opened his eyes and had a look at his bedside clock on that Thursday morning in the late fall of 1997, Elmer James Galway had the odd feeling that his day was not going to be an ordinary one. To begin with, the sixty-three-year-old professor of classical history at Oxford University had slept late. This was not due to some alarm clock malfunction but rather to a dog failure. Slipper, his golden retriever—so named because of his predilection as a puppy for that particular object—had not climbed on the professor’s bed and gently woken him up at 6 o’clock, as the dog dutifully did every morning, weekends included.
It was already 7:45 when Galway hurriedly got out of bed. As he headed for the kitchen to prepare his first cup of tea of the day, he bumped into an equally hurried Slipper coming in the opposite direction. “You’re late, old boy, and so am I; we have no time for your morning walk. And it’s all your fault,” he said, pointing his forefinger at the dog and pretending to be annoyed with him. He received a loud bark in return.
The telephone rang before he could reach the kitchen. He took the call in his study, while a restless Slipper kept trying to get his attention.
“Elmer? It’s David. I left you a message yesterday.” David Green was the founder and owner of one of the leading companies of antiquarian book dealers in Britain: David Green Rare Books & Manuscripts Limited, and from time to time he sought Galway’s expert advice on