CHAPTER XIX LUCILE SOLVES NO MYSTERY
Buried deep beneath the blankets of lower 9, car 20, bound for New York,Lucile for a time that night allowed her thoughts to swing along with theroll of the Century Limited. She found herself puzzled at the unexpectedturn of events. She had never visited New York and she welcomed theopportunity. There was more to be learned by such a visit, brief thoughit was bound to be, than in a whole month of poring over books. But whywas she going? What did Frank Morrow hope to prove by any discoveries shemight make regarding the former ownership of the book she carried in herpocket?
She had never doubted but that the aged Frenchman when badly in need offunds had sold the book to some American. That he should have repented ofthe transaction and had wished the book back in his library, seemednatural enough. Lacking funds to purchase it back, he had found anotherway. That the ends justified the means Lucile very much doubted, yetthere was something to be said for this old man because of his extremeage. It might be that he had reached the period of his second childhoodand all things appeared to belong to him.
"But here," she told herself, rising to a sitting posture and trying tostare out into the fleeing darkness, "here we suddenly discover that thebook came from New York. What is one to make of that? Very simple, in away, I suppose. This aged Frenchman enters America by way of New York. Heneeds funds to pay his passage and the freight on his books to Chicago,so he sells one or two books to procure the money. Yet I doubt if thatwould be Frank Morrow's solution of the problem. Surely he would notsacrifice a hundred dollars to send me to New York merely to find out whothe man was to whom the old Frenchman had sold the book. He must thinkthere is more to it than that--and perhaps there is. Ho, well," shesighed, as she settled back on her pillow, "let that come when it comes.I am going to see New York--N-e-w Y-o-r-k--" she spelled it out; "and thatis a grand and glorious privilege."
The next moment the swing of the Century Limited as it click-clicked overthe rails and the onward rush of scenery meant nothing to her. She wasfast asleep.
Morning found her much refreshed. After a half hour in the washroom andanother in the diner, over coffee and toast, she felt equal to the facingof any events which might chance to cross her path that day. There aredays in all our lives that are but blanks. They pass and we forget themforever. There are other days that are so pressed full and running overwith vivid experience that every hour, as we look back upon it, seems a"crowded hour." Such days we never forget, and this was destined to besuch a day in the life of Lucile.
Precisely at nine o'clock she was at the door of Burtnoe's Book Store. Tosave time she had taken a taxi. The clerk who unfastened the door lookedat her curiously. When she asked for Roderick Vining, she was directed bya nod to the back corner of the room.
She made her way into a square alcove where an electric light shiningbrightly from the ceiling brought out a gleam of real gold from the backsof thousands of books done in fine bindings.
Bending over a desk telephone was the form of a tall, slender-shoulderedman.
"Are--are you Roderick Vining?" she faltered, at the same time drawing"The Compleat Angler" half out of her pocket.
His only answer was to hold up one long, tapering finger as a signal forsilence. Someone was speaking at the other end of the wire.
With burning cheeks and a whispered apology, the girl sank back into theshadows. Her courage faltered. This was her introduction to New York; shehad made a faux pas as her first move; and this man, Roderick Vining, wasno ordinary person, she could see that. There was time to study him now.His face was long, his features thin, but his forehead was high. Heimpressed her, seated though he was, as one who was habitually in ahurry. Pressing matters were, without doubt, constantly upon his mind.
Now he was speaking. She could not avoid hearing what he was sayingwithout leaving the alcove, and he had not requested her to do that.
"Why, yes, Mrs. Nelson," he was saying, "we can get the set for you. Ofcourse you understand that is a very special, de luxe edition; only threehundred sets struck off, then the plates destroyed. The cost would beconsiderable."
Again he pressed the receiver to his ear.
"Why, I should say, three thousand dollars; not less, certainly. Allright, madam, I will order the set at once. Your address? Yes, certainly,I have it. Thank you. Good-bye."
He placed the receiver on its hook with as little noise as if it had beenpadded, then turned to Lucile. "Pardon me; you wanted to see me? Sorry tokeep you waiting."
"Frank Morrow sent me here to ask you where you purchased this book." Sheheld the thin volume out for his inspection.
He did not appear to look at it at all. Instead, he looked her squarelyin the eye. "Frank Morrow sent you all the way from Chicago that youmight ask me that question? How extraordinary! Why did he not wire me? Heknows I would tell him." A slight frown appeared on his forehead.
"I--I am--" she was about to tell him that she was to ask the next personwhere he got it, but thinking better of it said instead, "That is onlypart of my mission to New York. Won't you please look at the book andanswer my question?"
Still he did not look at the book but to her utter astonishment said,while a smile illumined his face, "I bought that copy of 'The CompleatAngler' right here in this alcove."
"From whom?" she half whispered.
"From old Dan Whitner, who keeps a bookshop back on Walton place."
"Thank you," she murmured, much relieved. Here was no mystery; onebookshop selling a book to another. There was more to it. She must followon.
"I suppose," he smiled, as if reading her thoughts, "that you'd like meto tell you where Dan got it, but that I cannot answer. You must ask himyourself. His address is 45 Walton place. It is ten minutes' walk fromhere; three blocks to your right as you leave our door, then two to yourleft, a block and a half to your left again and you are there. The sign'seasy to read--just 'Dan Whitner, Books.' Dan's a prince of a chap. He'lldo anything for a girl like you; would for anyone, for that matter. Everbeen to New York before?" he asked suddenly.
"No."
"Come alone?"
"Yes."
He whistled softly to himself, "You western girls will be the death ofus."
"When there's some place that needs to be gone to we go to it," shesmiled half defiantly. "There's nothing so terrible about that, isthere?"
"No, I suppose not," he admitted. "Well, you go see Dan. He'll tell youanything he knows." With that he turned to his work.
Lucile, however, was not ready to go. She had one more question to ask,even though it might be another faux pas.
"Would you--would you mind telling me how you knew what book I had whenyou did not see it?" she said.
"I did see it," he smiled, as if amused. "I didn't see it when youexpected me to see it, that was all. I saw it long before--saw it when Iwas at the phone. It's a habit we book folks have of doing one thing withour ears and another with our eyes. We have to or we'd never get throughin a day if we didn't. Your little book protruded from your pocket. Iknew you were going to say something about it; perhaps offer to sell it,so I looked at it. Simple, wasn't it? No great mystery about it. Hopeyour other mysteries will prove as simple. Got any friends in New York?"
"No."
He shook his head in a puzzled manner, but allowed her to leave the roomwithout further comment.