CHAPTER XVIII FRANK MORROW JOINS IN THE HUNT
That she had reached the limit of her resources, her power to reason andto endure, Lucile knew right well. To go on as she had been day afterday, each day adding some new responsibility to her already overburdenedshoulders, was to invite disaster. It was not fair to others. The set ofShakespeare, the volume of Portland charts, the hand-bound volume fromthe bindery and this book just taken from the summer home of themillionaire, were all for the moment in the hands of the old man and thechild. How long would they remain there? No one could tell save the oldman and perhaps the child.
That she had had no part whatever in the taking of any of them, unlessher accompanying of the child on this trip might be called taking a part,she knew quite well. Yet one is responsible for what one knows.
"I should have told what I knew about the set of Shakespeare in thebeginning," she chided herself. "Then there would have been no otherproblems. All the other books would be at this moment in their properplaces and the old man and child would be--"
She could not say the words, "in jail." It was too terrible tocontemplate! That man and that child in jail! And, yet, she suddenlyremembered the child's declaration that she would not return the book tothe summer cottage. She had said the book belonged to the old man.Perhaps, after all, it did. She had seen the millionaire's son in themystery room talking to the old man. Perhaps, after all, he had borrowedthe book and the child had been sent for it. There was some consolationin that thought.
"But that does not solve any of the other problems," she told herself,"and, besides, if she has a right to the book, why all this creeping upto the cottage by night by way of the water. And why did he assume thatshe was borrowing it?"
And so, after all her speculation, she found herself just where she hadleft off; the tangle was no less a tangle than before.
"Question is," she whispered to herself, "am I going to go to the policeor to the university authorities with the story and have these mysteriouspeople arrested, or am I not?"
They reached the station just as the last train was pulling in. Florenceand the child had climbed aboard and Lucile had her hand on the rail whenshe saw a skulking figure emerge from the shadows of the station. Theperson, whoever he might be, darted down the track to climb upon the backplatform just as the train pulled out.
"That," Lucile told herself, "is the person who crossed the bridge aheadof us. He is spying on us. I wonder who he is and what he knows." A coldchill swept over her as if a winter blast had passed down the car.
When Florence had been told of what Lucile had seen, she suggested thatthey go back and see who the man was.
"What's the use?" said Lucile. "We can't prove that he's following us. Itwould only get us into another mess and goodness knows we're in enoughnow."
So, with the mystery child curled up fast asleep in a seat before them,hugging the newly acquired book as though it were a doll, they rattledback toward the city.
In spite of the many problems perplexing her, Lucile soon fell asleep.Florence remained to keep vigil over her companion, the child and thesupposedly valuable book.
They saw nothing more of the mysterious person who had apparently beenfollowing them. Arrived at the city, they were confronted with theproblem of the immediate possession of the latest of the strangelyacquired volumes. Should the child be allowed to carry it to themysterious cottage or should they insist on taking it to their room forsafe keeping? They talked the matter over in whispers just beforearriving at their station.
"If you attempt to make her give it up," Florence whispered, "she'll makea scene. She's just that sort of a little minx."
"I suppose so," said Lucile wearily.
"Might as well let her keep it. It's as safe as any of the books are atthat cottage, and, really, it's not as much our business as you keepthinking it is. We didn't take the book. True, we went along with her,but she would have gone anyway. We're not the guardians of all the mustyold books in Christendom. Let's forget at least this one and let thatrich young man get it back as best he can. He took the chance in allowingher to take it away."
Lucile did not entirely agree to all this but was too tired to resist hercompanion's logic, so the book went away under the child's arm.
After a very few hours of restless sleep, Lucile awoke with one resolvefirmly implanted in her mind: She would take Frank Morrow's book back tohim and place it in his hand, then she would tell him the part of thestory that he did not already know. After that she would attempt tofollow his advice in the matter.
With the thin volume of "The Compleat Angler" in the pocket of her coat,she made her way at an early hour to his shop. He had barely opened upfor the day. No customers were yet about. Having done his nine holes ofgolf before coming down and having done them exceedingly well, he wasfeeling in a particularly good humor.
"Well, my young friend," he smiled, "what is it I may do for you thismorning? Why! Why!" he exclaimed, turning her suddenly about to thelight, "you've been losing sleep about something. Tut! Tut! That willnever do."
She smiled in spite of herself. Here was a young-old man who was truly adear. "Why I came," she smiled again, as she drew the valuable book fromher pocket, "to return your book and to tell you just how I came to haveit."
"That sounds interesting." Frank Morrow, rubbing his hands together asone does who is anticipating a good yarn, then led her to a chair.
Fifteen minutes later, as the story was finished, he leaned back in hischair and gave forth a merry chuckle as he gurgled, "Fine! Oh, fine!That's the best little mystery story I've heard in a long time. It'scosting me two hundred dollars, but I don't begrudge it, not a penny ofit. The yarn's really worth it. Besides, I shall make a cool hundred onthe book still, which isn't so bad."
"Two hundred dollars!" exclaimed Lucile in great perplexity.
"Yes, the reward for the return of the book. Now that the mystery isclosed and the book returned, I shall pay it to you, of course."
"Oh, the reward," she said slowly. "Yes, of course. But, really, themystery is not ended--it has only just begun."
"As you like it," the shopkeeper smiled back. "As matters go, I shouldcall the matter closed. I have a book stolen. You recover it and are ableto tell me that the persons who stole it are an old man, too feeble towork, and an innocent child. You are able to put your finger on them andto say, 'These are the persons.' I can have them arrested if I choose. Itoo am an old man; not so old as your Frenchman, yet old enough to knowsomething of what he must feel, with the pinch of age and povertydragging at the tail of his coat. I happen to love all little childrenand to feel their suffering quite as much as they do when they mustsuffer. I do not choose to have those two people arrested. That ends theaffair, does it not? You have your reward; I my book; they go free, notbecause justice says they should but because a soft heart of an old mansays they must." He smiled and brushed his eyes with the back of hishands.
Having nothing to say, Lucile sat there in silence.
Presently Frank Morrow began, "You think this is unusual because you donot know how common it is. You have never run a bookstore. You wouldperhaps be a little surprised to have me tell you that almost every dayof the year some book, more or less valuable, is stolen, either from alibrary or from a bookshop. It is done, I suppose, because it seems sovery easy. Here is a little volume worth, we will say, ten dollars. Itwill slip easily into your pocket. When the shopkeeper is not looking, itdoes slip in. Then again, when he is not paying any particular attentionto you, you slip out upon the street. You drink in a few breaths of freshair, cast a glance to right and left of you, then walk away. You thinkthe matter is closed. In reality it has just begun.
"In the first place, you probably did not take the book so you might haveit for your library. Collectors of rare books are seldom thieves. Theyare often cranks, but honest cranks. More books are stolen by studentsthan by any other class of people. They have a better knowledge of thevalue of b
ooks than the average run of folks, and they more often needthe money to be obtained from the sale of such books.
"Nothing seems easier than to take a book from one store, to carry it toanother store six or eight miles away and sell it, then to wash yourhands of the whole matter. Nothing in reality is harder. All thebookstore keepers of every large city are bound together in a looselyorganized society for mutual protection. The workings of their'underground railways' are swifter and more certain than the UnitedStates Secret Service. The instant I discover that one of my books hasbeen carried off, I sit down and put the name of it on a multigraph. Thisprints the name on enough post cards to go to all the secondhandbookshops in the city. When the shopkeepers get these cards, they readthe name and know the book has been stolen. If they have already boughtit, they start a search for the person who sold it to them. Theygenerally locate him. If the book has not yet been disposed of, everyshopkeeper is constantly on the lookout for it until it turns up. So," hesmiled, "you see how easy it is to steal books.
"And yet they will steal them," he went on. "Why," he smiledreminiscently, "not so long ago I had the same book stolen twice withinthe week."
"Did you find out who it was?"
"In both cases, at once."
"Different people."
"Entirely different; never met, as far as I know. The first one was anout and out rascal; he wanted the money for needless luxuries. We treatedhim rough. Very rough! The other was a sick student who, we found, hadused the money to pay carfare to his home. I did not even trouble to findout where his home was; just paid the ten dollars to the man who hadpurchased the book from him and charged it off on my books. That," hestroked his chin thoughtfully, "that doesn't seem like common sense--orjustice, either, yet it is the way men do; anyway it's the way I do."
Again there was silence.
"But," Lucile hesitated, "this case is different. The mystery stillexists. Why does Monsieur Le Bon want the books? He has not sold a singlevolume. Something must be done about the books from the university, theScientific Library and the Bindery."
"That's true," said Frank Morrow thoughtfully. "There are angles to thecase that are interesting, very interesting. Mind if I smoke?"
Lucile shook her head.
"Thanks." He filled and lighted his pipe. "Mind going over the wholestory again?"
"No, not a bit."
She began at the beginning and told her story. This time he interruptedher often and it seemed that, as he asked question after question, hisinterest grew as the story progressed.
"Now I'll tell you what to do," he held up a finger for emphasis as sheconcluded. He leaned far forward and there was a light of adventure inhis eye. "I'll tell you what you do. Here's a hundred dollars." He drew aroll of bills from his pocket. "You take this money and buy yourself aticket to New York. You can spare the week-end at least. When you get toNew York, go to Burtnoe's Book Store and ask for Roderick Vining. He soldme that copy of 'The Compleat Angler.' I sent out a bid for such a bookwhen I had a customer for it and he was one of two who responded. Hisbook was the best of the two, so I took it. He is in charge of finebinding in the biggest book store in his city. They deal in new books,not secondhand ones, but he dabbles in rare volumes on the side. Tell himthat I want to know where he got the book; take the book along, to showyou are the real goods. When he tells you where, then find that person ifyou can and ask him the same question. Keep going until you discoversomething. You may have to hunt up a half dozen former owners but sooneror later you will come to an end, to the place where that book crossedthe sea. And unless I miss my guess, that's mighty important.
"I am sorry to have to send you--wish I could go myself," he said after amoment's silence. "It will be an interesting hunt and may even be atrifle dangerous, though I think not."
"But this money, this hundred dollars?" Lucile hesitated, fingering thebills.
"Oh, that?" he smiled. "That's the last of my profit on the little book.We'll call that devoted to the cause of science or lost books or whateveryou like.
"But," he called after her, as she left the shop, "be sure to keep yourfingers tight closed around the little book."
This, Lucile was destined to discover, was not so easily done.