The Secret Mark - An Adventure Story for Girls

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Title: The Secret Mark - An Adventure Story for Girls
Author: Snell, Roy J. (Roy Judson), 1878-1959
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Secret Mark - An Adventure Story for Girls" ***

[Illustration: The man sprang back in fear--Chapter XII.]

Adventure Stories for Girls

THE SECRET MARK

ROY J. SNELL

The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE
I A Mysterious Visitor 7
II Elusive Shakespeare 19
III The Gargoyle 30
IV What the Gargoyle Might Tell 40
V The Papier-Mache Lunch Box 50
VI "One Can Never Tell" 62
VII The Vanishing Portland Chart 73
VIII What Was In the Papier-Mache Lunch Box 81
IX Shadowed 94
X Mysteries of the Sea 102
XI Lucile Shares Her Secret 111
XII The Trial By Fire 121
XIII In the Mystery Room at Night 131
XIV A Strange Request 138
XV A Strange Journey 143
XVI Night Visitors 155
XVII A Battle in the Night 166
XVIII Frank Morrow Joins in the Hunt 176
XIX Lucile Solves No Mystery 190
XX "That Was the Man" 199
XXI A Theft in the Night 211
XXII Many Mysteries 218
XXIII Inside the Lines 228
XXIV Secrets Revealed 235
XXV Better Days 242

The Secret Mark

CHAPTER I
A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR

Lucile Tucker's slim, tapered fingers trembled slightly as she rested
them against a steel-framed bookcase. She had paused to steady her shaken
nerves, to collect her wits, to determine what her next move should be.

"Who can it be?" her madly thumping heart kept asking her.

And, indeed, who, besides herself, could be in the book stacks at this
hour of the night?

About her, ranging tier on tier, towering from floor to ceiling, were
books, thousands on thousands of books. The two floors above were full of
books. The two below were the same. This place was a perfect maze of
books. It was one of the sections of a great library, the library of one
of the finest universities of the United States.

In all this vast "city of books" she had thought herself quite alone.

It was a ghostly hour. Midnight. In the towers the great clock had slowly
struck. Besides the striking of the clock there had been but a single
sound: the click of an electric light snapped on. There had instantly
gleamed at her feet a single ray of light. That light had traveled
beneath many tiers of books to reach her. She thought it must be four but
was not quite sure.

She had been preparing to leave the "maze," as she often called the
stacks of books which loomed all about her. So familiar was she with the
interior of this building that she needed no light to guide her. To her
right was a spiral stairway which like an auger bored its way to the
ground four stories below. Straight ahead, twenty tiers of books away,
was a small electric elevator, used only for lifting or lowering piles of
books. Fourteen tiers back was a straight stairway. To a person
unfamiliar with it, the stacks presented a bewildering labyrinth, but to
Lucile they were an open book.

She had intended making her way back to the straight stairway which led
to the door by which she must leave. But now she clutched at her heart as
she asked herself once more:

"Who can it be? And what does he want?"

Only one thing stood out clearly in her bewildered brain: Since she was
connected with the stacks as one of their keepers, it was plainly her
duty to discover who this intruder might be and, if occasion seemed to
warrant, to report the case to her superiors.

The university owned many rare and valuable books. She had often wondered
that so many of these were kept, not in vaults, but in open shelves.

Her heart gave a new bound of terror as she remembered that some of
these, the most valuable of all, were at the very spot from which the
light came.

"Oh! Shame! Why be so foolish?" she whispered to herself suddenly.
"Probably some professor with a pass-key. Probably--but what's the use?
I've got to find out."

With that she began moving stealthily along the narrow passageway which
lay between the stacks. Tiptoeing along, with her heart thumping so
loudly she could not help feeling it might be heard, she advanced step by
step until she stood beside the end of the stack nearest the strange
intruder. There for a few seconds she stuck. The last ounce of courage
had oozed out. She must await its return.

Then with a sudden burst of courage she swung round the corner.

The next instant she was obliged to exert all her available energy to
suppress a laugh. Standing in the circle of light was not some burly
robber, but a child, a very small and innocent looking child.

Yet a second glance told her that the child was older than she looked.
Her face showed that. Old as the face was, the body of the child appeared
tiny as a sparrow's. A green velvet blouse of some strangely foreign
weave, a coarse skirt, a pair of heavy shoes, unnoticeable stockings and
that face--all this flashed into her vision for a second. Then all was
darkness; the light had been snapped out.

The action was so sudden and unexpected that for a few seconds the young
librarian stood where she was, motionless. Wild questions raced through
her mind: Who was the child? What was she doing in the library at this
unearthly hour? How had she gotten in? How did she expect to get out?

She had a vaguely uneasy feeling that the child carried a package. What
could that be other than books? A second question suddenly disturbed her:
Who was this child? Had she seen her before? She felt sure she had. But
where? Where?

All this questioning took but seconds. The next turn found her mind
focused on the one important question: Which way had the child gone? As
if in answer to her question, her alert ears caught the soft pit-pat of
footsteps.

"She's going on to my right," she whispered to herself. "That's good.
There is no exit in that direction, only windows and an impossible drop
of fifty feet. I'll tiptoe along, throw on the general switch, catch her
at that end and find out why she is here. Probably accepting a dare or
going through with some childish prank."

Hastily she tiptoed down the aisle between the stacks. Then, turning to
her left, she put out her hand, touched a switch and released a flood of
light. At first its brightness blinded her. The next instant she stared
about her in astonishment. The place was empty.

"Deserted as a tomb," she whispered.

And so it was. Not a trace of the child was to be seen.

"As if I hadn't seen her at all!" she murmured. "I don't believe in
ghosts, but--where have I seen that face before? You'd never forget it,
once you'd seen it. And I have seen it. But where?"

Meditatively she walked to the dummy elevator which carried books up and
down. She started as her glance fell upon it. The carrier had been on
this floor when she left it not fifteen minutes before. Now it was gone.
The button that released it was pressed in for the ground floor.

"She couldn't have," she murmured. "The compartment isn't over two feet
square."

She stared again. Then she pressed the button for the return of the
elevator. The car moved silently upward to stop at her door. There was
nothing about it to show that it had been used for unusual purposes.

"And yet she might have," she mused. "She was so tiny. She might have
pressed herself into it and ridden down."

Suddenly she switched off the lights and hurried to a window. Did she
catch a glimpse of a retreating figure at the far side of the campus? She
could not be sure. The lights were flickering, uncertain.

"Well," she shook herself, then shivered, "I guess that's about all of
that. Ought to report it, but I won't. They'd only laugh at me."

Again she shivered, then turning, tiptoed down the narrow passageway to
carry out her original intention of going out of the building by way of
the back stairs.

Her room was only a half block away in a dormitory on the corner of the
campus nearest the library. Having reached the dormitory, she went to her
room and began disrobing for the night. In the bed near her own, wrapped
in profound sleep, lay her roommate. She wished to waken her, to tell her
of the strange event of the night. For a moment she stood with the name
"Florence" quivering on her lips.

The word died unspoken. "No use to trouble her," she decided. "She's been
working hard lately and needs the sleep."

At last, clad in her dream robes, with her abundant hair streaming down
her back and her white arms gleaming in the moonlight, she sat down by
the open window to think and dream.

It was a wonderful picture that lay spread out before her, a vista of
magnificent Gothic structures of gray sandstone framed in lawns of
perfectly kept green. Sidewalks wound here, there, everywhere. Swarming
with students during the waking hours, they were silent now. Her bosom
swelled with a strange, inexpressible emotion as she realized that she, a
mere girl, was a part of it all.

Like her roommate, she was one of the thousands of girls who to-day
attend the splendid universities of our land. With little money, of
humble parentage, they are yet given an opportunity to make their way
toward a higher and broader understanding of the meaning of life through
study in the university.

The thought that this university was possessed of fifty millions of
dollars' worth of property, yet had time and patience to make a place for
her, both awed and inspired her.

The very thought of her position sobered her. Four hours each week day
she worked in the stacks at the library. Books that had been read and
returned came down to her and by her hands were placed in their
particular niches of the labyrinth of stacks.

The work was not work to her but recreation, play. She was a lover of
books. Just to touch them was a delight. To handle them, to work with
them, to keep them in their places, accessible to all, this was joy
indeed. Yet this work, which was play to her, went far toward paying her
way in the university.

And at this thought her brow clouded. She recalled once more the
occurrence of a short time before and the strange little face among the
stacks. She knew that she ought to tell the head of her section of the
library, Mr. Downers, of the incident. Should anything happen, should
some book be missing, she would then be free from suspicion. Should
suspicion fall upon her, she might be deprived of her position and, from
lack of funds, be obliged to give up her cherished dream, a university
education.

"But I don't want to tell," she whispered to the library tower which,
like some kindly, long-bearded old gentleman, seemed to be accusing her.
"I don't want to."

Hardly had she said this than she realized that there was a stronger
reason than her fear of derision that held her back from telling.

"It's the face," she told herself. "That poor little kiddie's face. It
wasn't beautiful, no, not quite that, but appealing, frankly, fearlessly
appealing. If I saw her take a book I couldn't believe that she meant to
steal it, or at least that it was she who willed it.

"But fi-fum," she laughed a low laugh, throwing back her head until her
hair danced over her white shoulders like a golden shower, "why borrow
trouble? She probably took nothing. It was but a childish prank."

At that she threw back the covers of her bed, thrust her feet deep down
beneath them and lay down to rest. To-morrow was Sunday; no work, no
study. There would be plenty of time to think.

She believed that she had dismissed the scene in the library from her
mind, yet even as she fell asleep something seemed to tell her that she
was mistaken, that the child had really stolen a book, that there were
breakers ahead.

And that something whispered truth, for this little incident was but the
beginning of a series of adventures such as a college girl seldom is
called upon to experience. Being ignorant of all this, she fell asleep to
dream sweet dreams while the moon out of a cloudless sky, beaming down
upon the faultless campus, seemed at times to take one look in at her
open window.

CHAPTER II
ELUSIVE SHAKESPEARE

The sun had been up for more than an hour when on the following morning
Lucile lifted her head sleepily and looked at the clock.

"Sunday morning. I'm glad!" she exclaimed as she leaped out of bed and
raced away for a cold shower.

As she dressed she experienced a sensation of something unfinished and at
the same time a desire to hide something, to defend someone. At first she
could not understand what it all meant. Then, like a flash, the
occurrence of the previous night flashed upon her.

"Oh, that," she breathed.

She was surprised to find that her desire to shield the child had gained
tremendously in strength while she slept. Perhaps there are forces we
know nothing of, which work on the inner, hidden chambers of our mind
while we sleep, and having worked there, leave impressions which
determine our very destinies.

Lucile was not enough of a philosopher to reason this all out. She merely
knew that she did not want to tell anyone of the strange incident, no not
even her roommate. And in the end that was just what happened. She told
no one.

When she went back to her work on Monday night a whole busy day had
passed in the library. Thousands of books had shot up the dummy elevator
to have their cards stamped and to be given out. Thousands had been
returned to their places on their shelves. Was a single book missing?
Were two or three missing? Lucile had no way of knowing. Every book that
had gone out had been recorded, but to look over these records, then to
check back and see if others were missing, would be the work of weeks.
She could only await developments.

She was surprised at the speed with which these developments came. Mr.
Downers, the superintendent, was noted for his exact knowledge regarding
the whereabouts of the books which were under his care. She had not been
working an hour when a quiet voice spoke to her and with a little start
she turned to face her superior.

"Miss Tucker," the librarian smiled, "do you chance to have any knowledge
of the whereabouts of the first volume of our early edition of
Shakespeare?"

"Why, no," the girl replied quickly. "Why--er"--there was a catch in her
throat--"is it gone?"

Mr. Downers nodded as he replied:

"Seems temporarily so to be. Misplaced, no doubt. Will show up later." He
was still smiling but there were wrinkles in his usually placid brow.

"I missed it just now," he went on. "Strange, too. I saw it there only
Saturday. The set was to be removed from the library to be placed in the
Noyes museum. Considered too valuable to be kept in the library. Very
early edition, you know.

"Strange!" he puzzled. "It could not have been taken out on the car, as
it was used only in the reference reading room. It's not there. I just
phoned. However, it will turn up. Don't worry about it."

He turned on his heel and was gone.

Lucile stared after him. She wanted to call him back, to tell him that it
was not all right, that it would not turn up, that the strangely quaint
little person she had seen in the library at midnight had carried it
away. Yet she said not a word; merely allowed him to pass away. It was as
if there was a hand over her mouth forbidding her to speak.

"There can't be a bit of doubt about it," she told herself. "That girl
was standing right by the shelf where the ancient Shakespeare was kept.
She took it. I wonder why? I wonder if she'll come back. Why, of course
she will! For the other volume, or to return the one she has. Perhaps
to-night. Two volumes were too heavy for those slim shoulders. She'll
come back and then she shan't escape me. I'll catch her in the act. Then
I'll find out the reason why."

So great was her faith in this bit of reasoning that she resolved that,
without telling a single person about the affair, she would set a watch
that very night for the mysterious child and the elusive Shakespeare. She
must solve the puzzle.

That night as she sat in the darkened library, listening, waiting, she
allowed her mind to recall in a dim and dreamy way the face and form of
the mysterious child. As she dreamed thus there suddenly flashed into the
foreground from the deepest depths of her memory the time and
circumstance on which she had first seen that child. She saw it all as in
a dream. The girl had been dressed just as she was Saturday at midnight.
She had entered the stacks. That had been a month before. She had
appeared leading an exceedingly old man. Bent with the weight of years,
leaning upon a cane, all but blind, the old man had moved with a
strangely youthful eagerness.

He had been allowed to enter the stacks only by special request. He was
an aged Frenchman, a lover of books. He wished to come near the books, to
sense them, to see them with his age-dimmed eyes, to touch them with his
faltering hands.

So the little girl had guided him forward. From time to time he had asked
that he be allowed to handle certain volumes. He had touched each with a
reverent hand. His touch had resembled a caress. Some few he had opened
and had felt along the covers.

"I wonder why he did that," Lucile had thought to herself.

She paused. A sudden thought had flashed into her mind. At the risk of
missing her quarry, she groped her way to the shelf where the companion
to the stolen volume lay and took it down. Slowly she ran her fingers
over the inner part of the cover.

"Yes," she whispered, "there is something."

She dared not flash on the light. To do so might betray her presence in
the building. To-morrow she would see. Replacing the volume in its
accustomed niche, she again tiptoed to her post of waiting.

As she thought of it now, she began to realize what a large part her
unconscious memory had played in her longing to shield the child. She had
seen the child render a service to a feeble and all but helpless old man.
Her memory had been trying to tell her of this but had only now broken
through into her wakeful mind. Lucile was aroused by the thought.

"I must save her," she told herself. "I must. I must!"

Even with this resolve came a perplexing problem. Why had the child taken
the book? Had she done so at the old man's direction? That seemed
incredible. Could an old man, tottering to his grave, revealing in spite
of his shabby clothing a one-time more than common intellect and a
breeding above the average, stoop to theft, the theft of a book? And
could he, above all, induce an innocent child to join him in the deed? It
was unthinkable.

"That man," she thought to herself, "why he had a noble bearing, like a
soldier, almost, certainly like a gentleman. He reminded me of that great
old general of his own nation who said to his men when the enemy were all
but upon Paris: 'They must not pass.' Could he stoop to stealing?"

These problems remained all unsolved, for on that night no slightest
footfall was heard in the silent labyrinth.

The next night was the same, and the next. Lucile was growing weary,
hollow-eyed with her vigil. She had told Florence nothing, yet she had
surprised her roommate often looking at her in a way which said, "Why are
you out so late every night? Why don't you share things with your pal?"

And she wanted to, but something held her back.

Thursday night came with a raging torrent of rain. It was not her night
at the library. She would gladly have remained in her cozy room, wrapped
in a kimono, studying, yet, as the chimes pealed out the notes of Auld
Lang Syne, telling that the hour of ten had arrived, she hurried into her
rubbers and ulster to face the tempest.

Wild streaks of lightning faced her at the threshold. A gust of wind
seized her and hurried her along for an instant, then in a wild, freakish
turn all but threw her upon the pavement. A deluge of rain, seeming to
extinguish the very street light, beat down upon her.

"How foolish I am!" she muttered. "She would not come on a night like
this."

And yet she did come. Lucile had not been in her hiding place more than a
half hour when she caught the familiar pit-pat of footsteps.

"This time she shall not escape me," she whispered, as with bated breath
and cushioned footstep she tiptoed toward the spot where the remaining
Shakespeare rested.

Now she was three stacks away. As she paused to listen she knew the child
was at the same distance in the opposite direction. She moved one stack
nearer, then listened again.

She heard nothing. What had happened?--the child had paused. Had she
heard? Lucile's first impulse was to snap on a light. She hesitated and
in hesitating lost.

There came a sudden glare of light. A child's face was framed in it, a
puzzled, frightened face. A slender hand went out and up. A book came
down. The light went out. And all this happened with such incredible
speed that Lucile stood glued to her tracks through it all.

She leaped toward the dummy elevator, only to hear the faint click which
told that it was descending. She could not stop it. The child was gone.

She dashed to a window which was on the elevated station side. A few
seconds of waiting and the lightning rewarded her. In the midst of a
blinding flash, she caught sight of a tiny figure crossing a broad
stretch of rain-soaked green.

The next instant, with rubbers in one hand and ulster in the other, she
dashed down the stairs.

"I'll get her yet," she breathed. "She belongs down town. She'll take the
elevated. There is a car in seven minutes. I'll make it, too. Then we
shall see."

CHAPTER III
THE GARGOYLE

Down a long stretch of sidewalk, across a sunken patch of green where the
water was to her ankles, down a rain-drenched street, through pools of
black water where sewers were choked, Lucile dashed. With no thought for
health or safety she exposed herself to the blinding tempest and dashed
before skidding autos, to arrive at last panting at the foot of the
rusted iron stairs that led to the elevated railway platform.

Pausing only long enough to catch her breath and arrange her garments
that the child might not be frightened away by her appearance, she
hurried up the stairs. The train came thundering in. There was just time
to thrust a dime through the wicker window and to bound for the door.

Catching a fleeting glimpse of the dripping figure of the child, she made
a dash for that car and made it. A moment later, with her ulster thrown
over on the seat beside her, she found herself facing the child.

Sitting there curled up in a corner, as she now was, hugging a bulky
package wrapped in oilcloth, the child seemed older and tinier than ever.

"How could she do it?" was Lucile's unspoken question as she watched the
water oozing from her shoes to drip-drip to the floor below. With the
question came a blind resolve to see the thing through to the end. This
child was not the real culprit. Cost what it might, she would find who
was behind her strange actions.

There is no place in all the world where a thunderstorm seems more
terrible than in the deserted streets in the heart of a great city at
night. Echoing and re-echoing between the towering walls of buildings,
the thunder seems to be speaking to the universe. Flashing from a
thousand windows to ten thousand others, the lightning seems to be
searching the haunts and homes of men. The whole wild fury of it seems
but the voice of nature defying man in his great stronghold, the city. It
is as if in thundering tones she would tell him that great as he may
imagine himself, he is not a law unto himself and can never be.

Into the heart of a great city on a night like this the elevated train
carried Lucile and the child.

On the face of the child, thief as she undoubtedly was, and with the
stolen goods in her possession, there flashed not one tremor, not a
falling of an eyelash, which might be thought of as a sign of fear of
laws of nature, man or God. Was she hardened or completely innocent of
guilt? Who at that moment could tell?

It would be hard to imagine a more desolate spot than that in which the
car discharged its two passengers. As Lucile's eye saw the sea of dreary,
water-soaked tenements and tumbledown cottages that, like cattle left out
in the storm, hovered beside the elevated tracks, she shivered and was
tempted to turn back--yet she went on.

A half block from the station she passed a policeman. Again she
hesitated. The child was but a half block before her. She suspected
nothing. It would be so easy to say to the policeman, "Stop that child.
She is a thief. She has stolen property concealed beneath her cape." The
law would then take its course and Lucile's hands would be free.

Yet something urged her past the policeman, down a narrow street, round a
corner, up a second street, down a third, still narrower, and up to the
door of the smallest, shabbiest cottage of the whole tumble-down lot.

The child had entered here. Lucile paused to consider and, while
considering, caught the gleam of light through a torn window shade. The
cottage was one story and a garret. The window was within her range of
vision. After a glance from left to right, she stepped beneath the porch,
which gave her an opportunity to peer through the opening. Here, deep in
the shadows, she might look on at the scene within without herself being
observed by those within or by passers-by on the street.

The picture which came to her through the hole in the shade was so
different from that which one might expect that she barely suppressed a
gasp. In the room, which was scrupulously clean and tidy, there were but
two persons, the child and the old man who had visited the library.
Through the grate of a small stove a fire gleamed. Before this fire, all
unabashed, the child stripped the water-soaked clothing from her meager
body, then stood chafing her limbs, which were purple with cold.

The old man appeared all absorbed in his inspection of the book just
placed in his hands. Lucile was not surprised to recognize it as the
second Shakespeare. From turning it over and over, he paused to open it
and peer at its inside cover. Not satisfied with this, he ran his finger
over the upper, outside corner.

It was then that Lucile saw for the first time the thing she had felt
while in the library in the dark. A small square of paper, yellow with
age, was in that corner, and in its center was a picture of a gargoyle. A
strange looking creation was this gargoyle. It was with such as these the
ancients were wont to decorate their mansions. With a savage face that
was half man and half lion, he possessed the paws of a beast and the
wings of a great bird. About two sides of this picture was a letter L.

"So that was it," she breathed.

The next moment her attention was attracted by a set of shelves. These
ran across one entire end of the room and, save for a single foot of
space, were entirely filled with books. The striking fact to be noted was
that, if one were able to judge from the appearance of their books, they
must all of them be of great age.

"A miser of books," she breathed.

Searching these shelves, she felt sure she located the other missing
volume of Shakespeare. This decision was confirmed at last as the
tottering old man made his way to the shelf and filled some two inches of
the remaining vacant shelf-space by placing the newly-acquired book
beside its mate.

After this he stood there for a moment looking at the two books. The
expression on his face was startling. In the twinkling of an eye, it
appeared to prove her charge of book miser to be false. This was not the
look of a Shylock.

"More like a father glorying over the return of a long-lost child," she
told herself.

As she stood there puzzling over this, the room went suddenly dark. The
occupants of the house had doubtless gone to another part of the cottage
to retire for the night. She was left with two alternatives: to call a
policeman and have the place raided or to return quietly to the
university and think the thing through. She chose the latter course.

After discovering the number of the house and fixing certain landmarks in
her mind, she returned to the elevated station.

"They'll not dispose of the books, that's certain," she told herself.
"The course to be taken in the future will come to me."

Stealing silently into her room on her return, she was surprised to find
her roommate awake, robed in a kimono and pacing the floor.

"Why, Florence!" she breathed.

"Why, yourself!" Florence turned upon her. "Where've you been in all this
storm? Five minutes more and I should have called the matron. She would
have notified the police and then things would have been fine. Grand! Can
you see it in the morning papers? 'Beautiful co-ed mysteriously
disappears from university dormitory in storm. No trace of her yet found.
Roommate says no cause for suicide.'"

"Oh!" gasped Lucile, "you wouldn't have!"

"What else could I do? How was I to know what had happened? You hadn't
breathed a word. You--"

Florence sat down upon her bed, dug her bare toes into the rug and stared
at her roommate. For once in her life, strong, dependable, imperturbable
Florence was excited.

"I know," said Lucile, removing her watersoaked dress and stockings and
chafing her benumbed feet. "I--I guess I should have told you about it,
but it was something I was quite sure you wouldn't understand, so I
didn't, that's all. But now--now I've got to tell someone or I'll burst,
and I'd rather tell you than anyone else I know."

"Thanks," Florence smiled. "Just for that I'll help you into dry clothes,
then you can tell me in comfort."

The clock struck three and the girls were still deep in the discussion of
the mystery.

"One thing is important," said Florence. "That is the value of the
Shakespeare. Perhaps it's not worth so terribly much after all."

"Perhaps not," Lucile wrinkled her brow, "but I am awfully afraid it is.
Let's see--who could tell me? Oh, I know--Frank Morrow!"

"Who's Frank Morrow?"

"He's the best authority on old books there is in the United States
to-day. He's right here in this city. Got a cute little shop on the
fifteenth floor of the Marshal Annex building. He's an old friend of my
father. He'll tell me anything I need to know about books."

"All right, you'd better see him to-morrow, or I mean to-day. And now for
three winks."

Florence threw off her kimono and leaped into bed. Lucile followed her
example and the next instant the room was dark.

CHAPTER IV
WHAT THE GARGOYLE MIGHT TELL

Frank Morrow was the type of man any girl might be glad to claim as a
friend. He had passed his sixty-fifth birthday and for thirty-five years
he had been a dealer in old books, yet he was neither stooped nor
near-sighted. A man of broad shoulders and robust frame, he delighted as
much in a low morning score at golf as he did in the discovery of a rare
old book. His hair was white but his cheeks retained much of their ruddy
glow. His quiet smile gave to all who visited his shop a feeling of
genuine welcome which they did not soon forget.

His shop, like himself, reflected the new era which has dawned in the old
book business. Men have come to realize that age lends worth to books
that possessed real worth in the beginning and they are coming to house
them well. On one of the upper floors of a modern business block Frank
Morrow's shop was flooded with sunshine and fresh air. A potted plant
bloomed on his desk. The books, arranged neatly without a painful effort
at order, presented the appearance of some rich gentleman's library. A
darker corner, a room by itself, to the right and back, suggested privacy
and seclusion and here Frank Morrow's finds were kept. Many of them were
richly bound and autographed.

The wise and the rich of the world passed through Frank Morrow's shop,
for in his brain there rested knowledge which no other living man could
impart. Did a bishop wish to purchase an out-of-print book for his
ecclesiastical library, he came to Frank Morrow to ask where it might be
found. Did the prince of the steel market wish a folio edition of
Audubon's "Birds of America"? He came to Frank and somewhere, in Boston,
New York, Philadelphia, Frank found it for him. Authors came to him and
artists as well, not so much for what he could find for them as for what
he might impart in the way of genial friendship and the lore of books.

It was to this man and this shop that Lucile made her way next morning.
She was not prepared to confide in him to the extent of telling him the
whole story of her mystery, for she did not know him well. He was her
father's friend, that was all. She did wish to tell him that she was in
trouble and to ask his opinion of the probable value of the set of
Shakespeare which had been removed from the university library.

"Well, now," he smiled as he adjusted his glasses after she had asked her
question, "I'll be glad to help you if I can, but I'm not sure that I
can. There are Shakespeares and other Shakespeares. I don't know the
university set--didn't buy it for them. Probably a donation from some rich
man. It might be a folio edition. In that case--well"--he paused and smiled
again--"I trust you haven't burned this Shakespeare by mistake nor had it
stolen from your room or anything like that?"

"No! Oh, no! Not--nothing like that!" exclaimed Lucile.

"Well, as I was about to say, I found a very nice folio edition for a
rich friend of mine not so very long ago. The sale of it I think was the
record for this city. It cost him eighteen thousand dollars."

Lucile gasped, then sat staring at him in astonishment.

"Eighteen thousand dollars!" she managed to murmur at last.

"Of course you understand that was a folio edition, very rare. There are
other old editions that are cheaper, much cheaper."

"I--I hope so," murmured Lucile.

"Would you like to see some old books and get a notion of their value?"
he asked.

"Indeed I would."

"Step in here." He led the way into the mysterious dark room. There he
switched on a light to reveal walls packed with books.

"Here's a little thing," he smiled, taking down a volume which would fit
comfortably into a man's coat pocket; "Walton's Compleat Angler. It's a
first edition. Bound in temporary binding, vellum. What would you say it
was worth?"

"I--I couldn't guess. Please don't make me," Lucile pleaded.

"Sixteen hundred dollars."

Again Lucile stared at him in astonishment. "That little book!"

"You see," he said, motioning her a seat, "rare books, like many other
rare things, derive their value from their scarcity. The first edition of
this book was very small. Being small and comparatively cheap, the larger
number of the books were worn out, destroyed or lost. So the remaining
books have come to possess great value. The story--"

He came to an abrupt pause, arrested by a look of astonishment on the
girl's face, as she gazed at the book he held.

"Why, what--" he began.

"That," Lucile pointed to a raised monogram in the upper inside cover of
the book.

"A private mark," explained Morrow. "Many rich men and men of noble birth
in the past had private marks which they put in their books. The custom
seems to be as old as books themselves. Men do it still. Let's see, what
is that one?"

"An embossed 'L' around two sides of the picture of a gargoyle," said
Lucile in as steady a tone as she could command.

"Ah! yes, a very unusual one. In all my experience I have seen but five
books with that mark in them. All have passed through my hands during the
past two years. And yet this mark is a very old one. See how yellow the
paper is. Probably some foreign library. Many rare books came across the
sea during the war. I believe--"

He paused to reflect, then said with a tone of certainty, "Yes, I know
that mark was in the folio edition of Shakespeare which I sold last
year."

His words caught Lucile's breath. For the moment she could neither move
nor speak. The thought that the set of Shakespeare taken from the library
might be the very set sold to the rich man, and worth eighteen thousand
dollars, struck her dumb.

Fortunately the dealer did not notice her distress but pointing to the
bookmark went on: "If that gargoyle could talk now, if it could tell its
story and the story of the book it marks, what a yarn it might spin.

"For instance," his eyes half closed as the theme gripped him, "this mark
is unmistakably continental--French or German. French, I'd say, from the
form of the 'L' and the type of gargoyle. Many men of wealth and of noble
birth on the continent have had large collections of books printed in
English. This little book with the gargoyle on the inside of its cover is
a hundred years old. It's a young book as ancient books go, yet what
things have happened in its day. It has seen wars and bloodshed. The
library in which it has reposed may have been the plotting place of
kings, knights and dukes or of rebels and regicides.

"It may have witnessed domestic tragedies. What great man may have
contemplated the destruction of his wife? What noble lady may have
whispered in its presence of some secret love? What youths and maids may
have slipped away into its quiet corner to utter murmurs of eternal
devotion?

"It may have been stolen, been carried away as booty in war, been pawned
with its mates to secure a nobleman's ransom.

"Oh, I tell you," he smiled as he read the interest in her face, "there
is romance in old books, thrilling romance. Whole libraries have been
stolen and secretly disposed of. Chests of books have been captured by
pirates.

"Here is a book, a copy of Marco Polo's travels, a first edition copy
which, tradition tells us, was once owned by the renowned pirate, Captain
Kidd. I am told he was fond of reading. However that may be, there
certainly were men of learning among his crew. There never was a
successful gang of thieves that did not have at least one college man in
it."

He chuckled at his own witticism and Lucile smiled with him.

"Well," he said rising, "if there is anything I can do for you at any
time, drop in and ask me. I am always at the service of fair young
ladies. One never grows too old for that; besides, your father was my
very good friend."

Lucile thanked him, took a last look at the pocket volume worth sixteen
hundred dollars, made a mental note of the form of its gargoyle, then
handed it to him and left the room. She little dreamed how soon and under
what strange circumstances she would see that book again.

She left the shop of Frank Morrow in a strange state of mind. She felt
that she should turn the facts in her possession over to the officials of
the library and allow them to deal with the child and the old man. Yet
there was something mysterious about it all. That collector of books,
doubtless worth a fortune, in surroundings which betokened poverty, the
strange book mark, the look on the old man's face as he fingered the
volume of Shakespeare, how explain all these? If the university
authorities or the police handled the case, would they take time to solve
these mysteries, to handle the case in such a way as would not hasten the
death of this feeble old man nor blight the future of this strange child?
She feared not.

"Life, the life of a child, is of greater importance than is an ancient
volume," she told herself at last. "And with the help of Florence and
perhaps of Frank Morrow I will solve the mystery myself. Yes, even if it
costs me my position and my hope for an education!" She paused to stamp
the pavement, then hurried away toward the university.

CHAPTER V
THE PAPIER-MACHE LUNCH BOX

"But, Lucile!" exclaimed Florence after she had heard the latest
development in the mystery. "If the books are worth all that money, how
dare you take the risk of leaving things as they are for a single hour?"

"We don't know that they are that identical edition."

"But you say the gargoyle was there."

"Yes, but that doesn't prove anything. There might have been a whole
family of gargoyle libraries for all we know. Besides, what if it is?
What are two books compared to the marring of a human life? What right
has a university, or anyone else for that matter, to have books worth
thousands of dollars? Books are just tools or playthings. That's all they
are. Men use them to shape their intellects just as a carpenter uses a
plane, or they use them for amusement. What would be the sense of having
a wood plane worth eighteen thousand dollars when a five dollar one would
do just as good work?"

"But what do you mean to do about it?" asked Florence.

"I'm going down there by that mysterious cottage and watch what happens
to-night and you are going with me. We'll go as many nights as we have
to. If it's necessary we'll walk in upon our mysterious friends and make
them tell why they took the books. Maybe they won't tell but they'll give
them back to us and unless I'm mistaken that will at least be better for
the girl than dragging her into court."

"Oh, all right," laughed Florence, rising and throwing back her
shoulders. "I suppose you're taking me along as a sort of bodyguard. I
don't mind. Life's been a trifle dull of late. A little adventure won't
go so bad and since it is endured in what you choose to consider a
righteous cause, it's all the better. But please let's make it short. I
do love to sleep."

Had she known what the nature of their adventure was to be, she might at
least have paused to consider, but since the things we don't know don't
hurt us, she set to work planning this, their first nightly escapade.

Reared as they had been in the far West and the great white North, the
two girls had been accustomed to wildernesses of mountains, forest and
vast expanses of ice and snow. One might fancy that for them, even at
night, a great city would possess no terrors. This was not true. The
quiet life at the university, eight miles from the heart of the city, had
done little to rid them of their terror of city streets at night. To them
every street was a canyon, the end of each alley an entrance to a den
where beasts of prey might lurk. Not a footfall sounded behind them but
sent terror to their hearts.

Lucile had gone on that first adventure alone in the rain on sudden
impulse. The second was premeditated. They coolly plotted the return to
the narrow street where the mysterious cottage stood. Nothing short of a
desire to serve someone younger and weaker than herself could have
induced Lucile to return to that region, the very thought of which sent a
cold shiver running down her spine.

As for Florence, she was a devoted chum of Lucile. It was enough that
Lucile wished her to go. Other interests might develop later; for the
present, this was enough.

So, on the following night, a night dark and cloudy but with no rain,
they stole forth from the hall to make their way down town.

They had decided that they would go to the window of the torn shade and
see what they might discover, but, on arriving at the scene, decided that
there was too much chance of detection.

"We'll just walk up and down the street," suggested Lucile. "If she comes
out we'll follow her and see what happens. She may go back to the
university for more books."

"You don't think she'd dare?" whispered Florence.

"She returned once, why not again?"

"There are no more Shakespeares."

"But there are other books."

"Yes."

They fell into silence. The streets were dark. It grew cold. It was a
cheerless task. Now and again a person passed them. Two of them were men,
noisy and drunken.

"I--I don't like it," shivered Lucile, "but what else is there to do?"

"Go in and tell them they have our books and must give them up."

"That wouldn't solve anything."

"It would get our books back."

"Yes, but--"

Suddenly Lucile paused, to place a hand on her companion's arm. A slight
figure had emerged from the cottage.

"It's the child," she whispered. "We must not seem to follow. Let's cross
the street."

They expected the child to enter the elevated station as she had done
before, but this she did not do. Walking at a rapid pace, she led them
directly toward the very heart of the city. After covering five blocks,
she began to slow down.

"Getting tired," was Florence's comment. "More people here. We could
catch up with her and not be suspected."

This they did. Much to their surprise, they found the child dressed in
the cheap blue calico of a working woman's daughter.

"What's that for?" whispered Lucile.

"Disguise," Florence whispered. "She's going into some office building.
See, she is carrying a pressed paper lunch box. She'll get in anywhere
with that; just tell them she's bringing a hot midnight lunch to her
mother.

"It's strange," she mused, "when you think of it, how many people work
while we sleep. Every morning hundreds of thousands of people swarm to
their work or their shopping in the heart of the city and they find all
the carpets swept, desks and tables dusted, floors and stairs scrubbed,
and I'll bet that not one in a hundred of them ever pauses to wonder how
it all comes about. Not one in a thousand gives a passing thought to the
poor women who toil on hands and knees with rag and brush during the dark
hours of night that everything may be spick and span in the morning. I
tell you, Lucile, we ought to be thankful that we're young and that
opportunities lie before us. I tell you--"

She was stopped by a grip on her arm.

"Wha--where has she gone?" stammered Lucille.

"She vanished!"

"And she was not twenty feet before us a second ago."

The two girls stood staring at each other in astonishment The child had
disappeared.

"Well," said Lucile ruefully, "I guess that about ends this night's
adventure."

"I guess so," admitted Florence.

The lights of an all-night drug store burned brightly across the street.

"That calls for hot chocolate," said Florence. "It's what I get for
moralizing. If I hadn't been going on at such a rate we would have kept
sight of her."

They lingered for some time over hot chocolate and wafers. They were
waiting for a surface car to carry them home when, on hearing low but
excited words, they turned about to behold to their vast astonishment
their little mystery child being led along by the collar of her dress.
The person dragging her forward was an evil looking woman who appeared
slightly the worse for drink.

"So that's the trick," they heard her snarl. "So you would run away! Such
an ungratefulness. After all we done for you. Now you shall beg harder
than ever."

"No, I won't beg," the girl answered in a small but determined voice.
"And I shan't steal either. You can kill me first."

"Well, we'll see, my fine lady," growled the woman.

All this time the child was being dragged forward. As she came opposite
the two girls, the woman gave a harder tug than before and the girl
almost fell. Something dropped to the sidewalk, but the woman did not
notice it, and the child evidently did not care, for they passed on.

Lucile stooped and picked it up. It was the paper lunch box they had seen
the child carrying earlier in the evening.

"Something in it," she said, shaking it.

"Lucile," said Florence in a tense whisper, "are we going to let that
beast of a woman get that child? She doesn't belong to her, or if she
does, she oughtn't to. I'm good for a fight."

Lucile's face blanched.

"Here in this city wilderness," she breathed.

"Anywhere for the good of a child. Come on."

Florence was away after the woman and child at a rapid rate.

"We'll get the child free. Then we'll get out," breathed Florence. "We
don't want any publicity."

Fortune favored their plan. The woman, still dragging the child, who was
by now silently weeping, hurried into a narrow dismal alley.

Suddenly as she looked about at sound of a footstep behind her, she was
seized in two vises and hurled by some mechanism of steel and bronze a
dozen feet in air, to land in an alley doorway. At least so it seemed to
her, nor was it far from the truth. For Florence's months of gymnasium
work had turned her muscles into things of steel and bronze. It was she
who had seized the woman.

It was all done so swiftly that the woman had no time to cry out. When
she rose to her feet, the alley was deserted. The child had fled in one
direction, while the two girls had stepped quietly out into the street in
the other direction and, apparently quite unperturbed, were waiting for a
car.

"Look," said Lucile, "I've still got it. It's the child's lunch basket.
There's something in it."

"There's our car," said Florence in a relieved tone. The next moment they
were rattling homeward.

"We solved no mystery to-night," murmured Lucile sleepily.

"Added one more to the rest," smiled Florence. "But now I _am_
interested. We must see it through."

"Did you hear what the child said, that she'd rather die than steal?"

"Wonder what she calls the taking of our Shakespeare?"

"That's part of our problem. Continued in our next," smiled Lucile.

She set the dilapidated papier-mache lunch box which she had picked up in
the street after the child had dropped it, in the corner beneath the
cloak rack. Before she fell asleep she thought of it and wondered what
had been thumping round inside of it.

"Probably just an old, dried-up sandwich," she told herself. "Anyway, I'm
too weary to get up and look now. I'll look in the morning."

One other thought entered her consciousness before she fell asleep. Or
was it a thought? Perhaps just one or two mental pictures. The buildings,
the street, the electric signs that had encountered her gaze as they
first saw the child and the half-drunk woman passed before her mind's
eye. Then, almost instantly, the picture of the street on which the
building in which Frank Morrow's book shop was located flashed before
her.

"That's queer!" she murmured. "I do believe they were the same!"

"And indeed," she thought dreamily, "why should they not be? They are
both down in the heart of the city and I am forever losing my sense of
location down there."

At that she fell asleep.

CHAPTER VI
"ONE CAN NEVER TELL"

When Lucile awoke in the morning she remembered the occurrence of the
night before as some sort of bad dream. It seemed inconceivable that she
and Florence, a couple of co-eds, should have thrown themselves upon a
rough-looking woman in the heart of the city on a street with which they
were totally unfamiliar. Had they done this to free a child about whom
they knew nothing save that she had stolen two valuable books?

"Did we?" she asked sleepily.

"Did we what?" smiled Florence, drawing the comb through her hair.

"Did we rescue that child from that woman?"

"I guess we did."

"Why did we do it?"

"That's what I've been wondering."

Lucile sat up in bed and thought for a moment. She gazed out of the
window at the lovely green and the magnificent Gothic architecture spread
out before her. She thought of the wretched alleys and tumble-down
tenements which would greet the eye of that mysterious child when she
awoke.

"Anyway," she told herself, "we saved her from something even worse, I do
believe. We sent her back to her little old tottering man. I do think she
loves him, though who he is, her grandfather or what, I haven't the
faintest notion.

"Anyway I'm glad we did it," she said.

"Did what?" panted Florence, who by this time was going through her
morning exercises.

"Saved the child."

"Yes, so am I."

The papier-mache lunch box remained in its place in the dark corner when
they went to breakfast Both girls had completely forgotten it. Had Lucile
dreamed what it contained she would not have passed it up for a thousand
breakfasts. Since she didn't, she stepped out into the bright morning
sunshine, and drinking in deep breaths of God's fresh air, gave thanks
that she was alive.

The day passed as all schooldays pass, with study, lectures, laboratory
work, then dinner as evening comes. In the evening paper an advertisement
in the "Lost, Strayed or Stolen" column caught her eye. It read:

"REWARD

"Will pay $100.00 reward for the return of small copy of The Compleat
Angler which disappeared from the Morrow Book Shop on November 3."

It was signed by Frank Morrow.

"Why, that's strange!" she murmured. "I do believe that was the book he
showed me only yesterday, the little first edition which was worth
sixteen hundred dollars. How strange!"

A queer sinking sensation came over her.

"I--I wonder if she could have taken it," she whispered, "that child?

"No, no," she whispered emphatically after a moment's thought. "And, yet,
there was the gargoyle bookmark in the inside cover, the same as in our
Shakespeare. How strange! It might be--and, yet, one can never tell."

That evening was Lucile's regular period at the library, so, much as she
should have liked delving more deeply into the mystery which had all but
taken possession of her, she was obliged to bend over a desk checking off
books.

Working with her was Harry Brock, a fellow student. Harry was the kind of
fellow one speaks of oftenest as a "nice boy." Clean, clear-cut,
carefully dressed, studious, energetic and accurate, he set an example
which was hard to follow. He had taken a brotherly interest in Lucile
from the start and had helped her over many hard places in the library
until she learned her duties.

Shortly after she had come in he paused by her desk and said in a quiet
tone:

"Do you know, I'm worried about the disappearance of that set of
Shakespeare. Sort of gives our section a long black mark. Can't see where
it's disappeared to."

Lucile drew in a long breath. What was he driving at? Did he suspect? Did
he--

"If I wasn't so sure our records were perfect," he broke in on her mental
questioning, "I'd say it was tucked away somewhere and would turn up. But
we've all been careful. It just can't be here."

He paused as if in reflection, then said suddenly:

"Do you think one would ever be justified in protecting a person whom he
knew had stolen something?"

Lucile started. What did he mean? Did he suspect something? Had he
perhaps seen her enter the library on one of those nights of her
watching? Did he suspect her? For a second the color rushed flaming to
her cheeks. But, fortunately, he was looking away. The next second she
was her usual calm self.

"Why, yes," she said steadily, "I think one might, if one felt that there
were circumstances about the apparent theft which were not clearly
understood.

"You know," she said as a sudden inspiration seized her, "we've just
finished reading Victor Hugo's story of Jean Valjean in French.
Translating a great story a little each day, bit by bit, is such a
wonderful way of doing it. And that is the greatest story that ever was
written. Have you read it?"

He nodded.

"Well, then you remember how that poor fellow stole a loaf of bread to
feed his sister's hungry children and how, without trying to find out
about things and be just, they put him in prison. Then, because he tried
to get out, they kept him there years and years. Then when they at last
let him out, in spite of it all, after he had come into contact with a
beautiful, unselfish old man, he became one of the most wonderful
characters the world may hope to know. Just think how wonderful his
earlier years, wasted in prison, might have been if someone had only
tried a little to understand."

"You're good," smiled Harry. "When I get arrested I'll have you for my
lawyer."

Lucile, once more quite herself, laughed heartily. Then she suddenly
sobered.

"If I were you," she said in a low tone, "I shouldn't worry too much
about that set of Shakespeare. Someway I have an idea that it will show
up in its own good time."

Harry shot her a quick look, then as he turned to walk away, said in a
tone of forced lightness:

"Oh! All right."

The following night they were free to return to the scene of the mystery,
the cottage on dreary Tyler street where the old man and the strange
child lived. A light shone out of the window with the torn shade as they
loitered along in front of the place as before. Much to their surprise,
not ten minutes had passed when the child stole forth.

"We were just in time," breathed Florence.

"Dressed just as she was on the first night I saw her," Lucile whispered
as the child passed them.

"She's making for the elevated station this time," said Florence as they
hurried along after her. "That means a long trip and you are tired. Why
don't you let me follow her alone?"

"Why I--"

Lucile cut her speech short to grip her companion's arm.

"Florence," she whispered excitedly, "did you hear a footstep behind us?"

"Why, yes, I--"

Florence hesitated. Lucile broke in:

"There was one. I am sure of it, and just now as I looked about there was
no one in sight. You don't think someone could suspect--be shadowing us?"

"Of course not."

"It might be that woman who tried to carry the child away."

"I think not. That was in another part of the city. Probably just nothing
at all."

"Yes, yes, there it is now. I hear it. Look about quick."

"No one in sight," said Florence. "It's your nerves. You'd better go home
and get a good night's sleep."

They parted hurriedly at the station. Florence swung onto the train
boarded by the child, a train which she knew would carry her to the north
side, directly away from the university.

"Probably be morning before I get in," she grumbled to herself. "What a
wild chase!"

Yet, as she stole a glance now and then at the child, who, all
unconscious of her scrutiny, sat curled up in the corner of a near-by
seat, she felt that, after all, she was worth the effort being made for
her.

"Whosoever saveth a soul from destruction," she whispered to herself as
the train rattled on over the river on its way north.

In the meantime Lucile had boarded a south-bound car. She was not a
little troubled by the thought of those footsteps behind them on the
sidewalk. She knew it was not her nerves.

"Someone _was_ following us!" she whispered to herself. "I wonder who and
why."

She puzzled over it all the way home; was puzzling over it still when she
left her car at the university.

Somewhat to her surprise she saw Harry Brock leave the same train. He
appeared almost to be avoiding her but when she called to him he turned
about and smiled.

"So glad to have someone to walk those five lonely blocks with," she
smiled.

"Pleasure mutual," he murmured, but he seemed ill at ease.

Lucile glanced at him curiously.

"He can't think I've got a crush on him," she told herself. "Our
friendship's had too much of the ordinary in it for that. I wonder what
is the matter with him."

Conversation on the way to the university grounds rambled along over
commonplaces. Each studiously avoided any reference to the mystery of the
missing books.

Lucile was distinctly relieved as he left her at the dormitory door.

"Well," she heaved a sigh, "whatever could have come over him? He has
always been so frank and fine. I wonder if he suspects--but, no, how could
he?"

As she hung her wrap in the corner of her room, her eye fell upon the
papier-mache lunch box. Her hand half reached for it, then she drew it
back and flung herself into a chair.

"To-morrow," she murmured. "I'm so tired."

Fifteen minutes later she was in her bed fast asleep, dreaming of her
pal, and in that dream she saw her rattling on and on and on forever
through the night.

CHAPTER VII
THE VANISHING PORTLAND CHART

Florence was not rattling on and on through the night as Lucile dreamed.
Some two miles from the heart of the city her journey on the elevated
came to a halt. The child left the car and went bounding down the steps.

Not many moments passed before Florence realized that her destination was
a famous library, the Newburg. Before she knew it the massive structure
of gray sandstone loomed up before her. And before she could realize what
was happening, the child had darted through the door and lost herself in
the labyrinth of halls, stairways and passageways which led to hundreds
of rooms where books were stacked or where huge oak tables invited one to
pause and read.

"She's gone!" Florence gasped. "Now how shall I find her?"

Walking with all the speed that proper conduct in such a spacious and
dignified hostelry of books would allow, she passed from room to room,
from floor to floor, until, footsore and weary, without the least notion
of the kind of room she was in or whether she was welcome or not, she at
last threw herself into a chair to rest.

"She's escaped me!" she sighed. "And I promised to keep in touch with
her. What a mess! But the child's a witch. Who could be expected to keep
up with her?"

"Are you interested in the exhibit?" It was the well-modulated tone of a
trained librarian that interrupted her train of thought. The question
startled her.

"The--er--" she stammered. "Why, yes, very much."

What the exhibit might be she had not the remotest notion.

"Ah, yes," the lady sighed. "Portland charts are indeed interesting.
Perhaps you should like to have me explain some of them to you?"

"Portland charts." That did sound interesting. It suggested travel. If
there was any one thing Florence was interested in, it was travel.

"Why, yes," she said eagerly, "I would."

"The most ancient ones," said the librarian, indicating a glass case,
"are here. Here you see one that was made in 1440, some time before
Columbus sailed for America. These maps were made for mariners. Certain
men took it up as a life work, the making of Portland charts. It is
really very wonderful, when you think of it. How old they are, four or
five hundred years, yet the coloring is as perfect as if they were done
but yesterday."

Florence listened eagerly. This was indeed interesting.

"You see," smiled the librarian, "in those days nothing much was known of
what is now the new world, but from time to time ships lost at sea
drifted about to land at last on strange shores. These they supposed were
shores of islands. When they returned they related their experiences and
a new island was stuck somewhere on the map. The exact location could not
be discovered, so they might make a mistake of a thousand or more miles
in locating them, but that didn't really matter, for no one ever went to
them again."

"What a time to dream of," sighed Florence. "What an age of mysteries!"

"Yes, wasn't it? But there are mysteries quite as wonderful to-day. Only
trouble is, we don't see them."

"And sometimes we do see them but can't solve them." Florence was
thinking of the mystery that thus far was her property and her chum's.

"The maps were sometimes bound in thin books very much like an atlas,"
the librarian explained. "Here is one that is very rare." She indicated a
book in a case.

The book was open at the first map with the inside of the front cover
showing. Florence was about to pass it with a glance when something in
the upper outside corner of the cover caught and held her attention. It
was the picture of a gargoyle with a letter L surrounding two sides of
it. It was a bookmark and, though she had not seen the mark in the
missing Shakespeare, she knew from Lucile's description of it that this
must be an exact duplicate.

"Probably from the same library originally," she thought. "I suppose
these charts are worth a great deal of money," she ventured.

"Oh! yes. A great deal. One doesn't really set a price on such things.
These were the gift of a rich man. It is the finest collection except one
in America."

As Florence turned to pass on, she was startled to see the mysterious
child who had escaped from her sight nearly an hour before, standing not
ten feet from her. She was apparently much interested in the cherubs done
in blue ink on one chart and used to indicate the prevailing direction of
the winds.

"Ah, now I have you!" she sighed. "There is but one door to this room. I
will watch the door, not you. When you leave the room, I will follow."

With the corner of an eye on that door, she sauntered from case to case
for another quarter of an hour. Then seized with a sudden desire to
examine the chart book with the gargoyle in the corner of its cover, she
drifted toward it.

Scarcely could she believe her eyes as she gave the case a glance. _The
chart book was gone._

Consternation seized her. She was about to cry out when the thought
suddenly came to her that the book had probably been removed by the
librarian.

The next moment a suggestion that the ancient map book and the presence
of the child in the room had some definite connection flashed through her
mind.

Hurriedly her eye swept the room. The child was gone!

There remained now not one particle of doubt in her mind. "She took it,"
she whispered. "I wonder why."

Instantly her mind was in a commotion. Should she tell what she knew? At
first she thought she ought, yet deliberation led to silence, for, after
all, what did she know? She had not seen the child take the book. She had
seen her in the room, that was all.

And now the librarian, sauntering past the case, noted the loss. The
color left her face, but that was all. If anything, her actions were more
deliberate than before. Gliding to a desk, she pressed a button. The next
moment a man appeared. She spoke a few words. Her tone was low, her lips
steady. The man sauntered by the case, glanced about the room, then
walked out of the door. Not a word, not an outcry. A book worth thousands
had vanished.

Yet as she left the library, Florence felt how impossible it would have
been for her to have carried that book with her. She passed four
eagle-eyed men before she reached the outside door and each one searched
her from head to foot quite as thoroughly as an X-ray might have done.

"All the same," she breathed, as she reached the cool, damp outer air of
night, "the bird has flown, your Portland chart book is gone, for the
time at least.

"Question is," she told herself, "what am I going to do about it?"

CHAPTER VIII
WHAT WAS IN THE PAPIER-MACHE LUNCH BOX

"We can tell whether she really took it," said Lucile after listening to
Florence's story of her strange experiences in the Portland chart room of
the famous old library. "We'll go back to Tyler street and look in at the
window with the torn shade. If she took it, it's sure to be in the empty
space in the book-shelf. Looks like he was trying to fill that space."

"He's awfully particular about how it's filled," laughed Florence. "He
might pick up enough old books in a secondhand store to fill the whole
space and not spend more than a dollar."

"Isn't it strange!" mused Lucile. "He might pack a hundred thousand
dollars' worth of old books in a space two feet long, and will at the
rate he's going."

"The greatest mystery after all is the gargoyle in the corner of each
book they take," said Florence, wrinkling her brow. "He seems to be sort
of specializing in those books. They are taken probably from a private
library that has been sold and scattered."

"That is strange!" said Lucile. "The whole affair is most mysterious!
And, by the way," she smiled, "I have never taken the trouble to look
into that papier-mache lunch box the child lost on the street, the night
we rescued her from that strange and terrible woman. There might possibly
be some clue in it."

"Might," agreed Florence.

Now that the thought had occurred to them, they were eager to inspect the
box. Lucile's fingers trembled as they unloosed the clasps which held it
shut. And well they might have trembled, for, as it was thrown open, it
revealed a small book done in a temporary binding of vellum.

Lucile gave it one glance, then with a little cry of surprise, dropped it
as if it were on fire.

"Why! Why! What?" exclaimed Florence in astonishment.

"It's Frank Morrow's book, Walton's 'Compleat Angler.' The first edition.
The one worth sixteen hundred dollars. And it's been right here in this
room all the time!" Lucile sank into a chair and there sat staring at the
strangely found book.

"Isn't that queer!" said Florence at last.

"She--she'd been to his shop. Got into the building just the way you said
she would, by posing as a scrubwoman's child, and had made a safe escape
when that woman for some mysterious reason grabbed her and tried to carry
her off."

"Looks that way," said Florence. "And I guess that's a clear enough case
against her, if our Shakespeare one isn't. You'll tell Frank Morrow and
he'll have her arrested, of course."

"I--I don't know," hesitated Lucile. "I'm really no surer that that's the
thing to do than I was before. There is something so very strange about
it all."

The book fell open in her hand. The inside of the front cover was exposed
to view. The gargoyle in the corner stared up at her.

"It's the gargoyle!" she exclaimed. "Why always the gargoyle? And how
could a child with a face like hers consciously commit a theft?"

For a time they sat silently staring at the gargoyle. At last Lucile
spoke.

"I think I'll go and talk with Frank Morrow."

"Will you tell him all about it?"

"I--I don't know."

Florence looked puzzled.

"Are you going to take the book?"

Lucile hesitated. "No," she said after a moment's thought, "I think I
sha'n't."

"Why--what--"

Florence paused, took one look at her roommate's face, then went about
the business of gathering up material for a class lecture.

"Sometimes," she said after a moment, "I think you are as big a riddle as
the mystery you are trying to solve."

"Why?" Lucile exclaimed. "I am only trying to treat everyone fairly."

"Which can't be done," laughed Florence. "There is an old proverb which
runs like this: 'To do right by all men is an art which no one knows.'"

Lucile approached the shop of Frank Morrow in a troubled state of mind.
She had Frank Morrow's valuable book. She wished to play fair with him.
She must, sooner or later, return it to him. Perhaps even at this moment
he might have a customer for the book. Time lost might mean a sale lost,
yet she did not wish to return it, not at this time. She did not wish
even so much as to admit that she had the book in her possession. To do
so would be to put herself in a position which required further
explaining. The book had been carried away from the bookshop. Probably it
had been stolen. Had she herself taken it? If not, who then? Where was
the culprit? Why should not such a person be punished? These were some of
the questions she imagined Frank Morrow asking her, and, for the present,
she did not wish to answer them.

At last, just as the elevator mounted toward the upper floors, she
thought she saw a way out.

"Anyway, I'll try it," she told herself.

She found Frank Morrow alone in his shop. He glanced up at her from over
an ancient volume he had been scanning, then rose to bid her welcome.

"Well, what will it be to-day?" he smiled. "A folio edition of
Shakespeare or only the original manuscript of one of his plays?"

"Oh," she smiled back, "are there really original manuscripts of
Shakespeare's plays?"

"Not that anyone has ever discovered. But, my young lady, if you chance
to come across one, I'll pledge to sell it for you for a million dollars
flat and not charge you a cent commission."

"Oh!" breathed Lucile, "that would be marvelous."

Then suddenly she remembered her reason for being there.

"Please may I take a chair?" she asked, her lips aquiver with some new
excitement.

"By all means." Frank Morrow himself sank into a chair.

"Mr. Morrow," said Lucile, poising on the very edge of the chair while
she clasped and unclasped her hands, "if I were to tell you that I know
exactly where your book is, the one worth sixteen hundred dollars; the
Compleat Angler, what would you say?"

Frank Morrow let a paperweight he had been toying with crash down upon
the top of his desk, yet as he turned to look at her there was no emotion
expressed upon his face, a whimsical smile, that was all.

"I'd say you were a fortunate girl. You probably know I offered a hundred
dollar reward for its return. This morning I doubled that."

Lucile's breath came short and quick. She had completely forgotten the
reward. She would be justly entitled to it. And what wouldn't two hundred
dollars mean to her? Clothes she had longed for but could not afford;
leisure for more complete devotion to her studies; all this and much more
could be purchased with two hundred dollars.

For a moment she wavered. What was the use? The whole proposition if put
fairly to the average person, she knew, would sound absurd. To protect
two persons whom you have never met nor even spoken to; to protect them
when to all appearances they were committing one theft after another,
with no excuse which at the moment might be discovered; how ridiculous!

Yet, even as she wavered, she saw again the face of that child, heard
again the shuffling footstep of the tottering old man, thought of the
gargoyle mystery; then resolved to stand her ground.

"I do know exactly where your book is," she said steadily. "But if I were
to tell you that for the present I did not wish to have you ask me where
it was, what would you say?"

"Why," he smiled as before, "I would say that this was a great old world,
full of many mysteries that have never been solved. I should say that a
mere book was nothing to stand between good friends."

He put out a hand to clasp hers. "When you wish to tell me where the book
is or to see that it is returned, drop in or call me on the phone. The
reward will be waiting for you."

Lucile's face was flushed as she rose to go. She wished to tell him all,
yet did not dare.

"But--but you might have a customer waiting for that book," she exclaimed.

"One might," he smiled. "In such an event I should say that the customer
would be obliged to continue to wait."

Lucile moved toward the door and as she did so she barely missed bumping
into an immaculately tailored young man, with all too pink cheeks and a
budding moustache.

"I beg your pardon," he apologized.

"It was my fault," said Lucile much confused.

The young man turned to Frank Morrow.

"Show up yet?" he asked.

"Not yet."

"Well?"

"I'll let you know if it does."

"Yes, do. I have a notion I know where there's another copy."

"Well, I'll be sorry to lose the sale, but I can't promise delivery at
any known date now."

"Perhaps not at all?"

"Perhaps."

The young man bowed his way out so quickly that Lucile was still in the
shop.

"That," smiled Frank Morrow, "is R. Stanley Ramsey, Jr., a son of one of
our richest men. He wanted 'The Compleat Angler.'"

He turned to his work as if he had been speaking of a mere trifle.

Lucile was overwhelmed. So he did have a customer who was impatient of
waiting and might seek a copy elsewhere? Why, this Frank Morrow was a
real sport! She found herself wanting more than ever to tell him
everything and to assure him that the book would be on his desk in two
hours' time. She considered.

But again the face of the child framed in a circle of light came before
her. Again on the street at night in the clutches of a vile woman, she
heard her say, "I won't steal. I'll die first."

Then with a sigh she tiptoed toward the door.

"By the way," Frank Morrow's voice startled her, "you live over at the
university, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Mind doing me a favor?"

"Certainly not."

"The Silver-Barnard binderies are only two blocks from your station.
You'll almost pass them. They bind books by hand; fine books, you know. I
have two very valuable books which must be bound in leather. I'd hate to
trust them to an ordinary messenger and I can't take them myself. Would
you mind taking them along?"

"N--no," Lucile was all but overcome by this token of his confidence in
her.

"Thanks."

He wrapped the two books carefully and handed them to her, adding, as he
did so:

"Ask for Mr. Silver himself and don't let anyone else have them.
Perhaps," he suggested as an afterthought, "you'd like to be shown
through the bindery. It's rather an interesting place."

"Indeed I should. Anything that has to do with books interests me."

He scribbled a note on a bit of paper.

"That'll let you through," he smiled, "and no thanks due. 'One good
turn,' you know." He bowed her out of the room.

She found Mr. Silver to be a brisk person with a polite and obliging
manner. It was with a deep sense of relief that she saw the books safely
in his hands. She had seen so much of vanishing books these last few days
that she feared some strange magic trick might spirit them from her
before they reached their destination.

The note requesting that she be taken through the bindery she kept for
another time. She must hurry back to the university now.

"It will be a real treat," she told herself. "There are few really famous
binderies in our country. And this is one of them." Little she realized
as she left the long, low building which housed the bindery, what part it
was destined to play in the mystery she was attempting to unravel.

She returned to the university and to her studies. That night she and
Florence went once more to Tyler street, to the tumble-down cottage where
the two mysterious persons lived, and there the skein of mystery was
thrown into a new tangle.

CHAPTER IX
SHADOWED

A cold fog hung low over the city as the two girls stole forth from the
elevated station that night on their way to Tyler street. From the
trestlework of the elevated there came a steady drip-drip; the streets
reeked with damp and chill; the electric lamps seemed but balls of light
suspended in space.

"B-r-r!" said Florence, drawing her wraps more closely about her. "What a
night!"

"Sh!" whispered Lucile, dragging her into a corner. "There's someone
following us again."

Scarcely had she spoken the words when a man with collar turned up and
cap pulled low passed within four feet of them. He traveled with a long,
swinging stride. Lucile fancied that she recognized that stride, but she
could not be sure; also, for the moment she could not remember who the
person was who walked in this fashion.

"Only some man returning to his home," said Florence. "This place gets on
your nerves."

"Perhaps," said Lucile.

As they reached the street before the cottage of many mysteries they were
pleased to see lights streaming from the rent in the shade.

"At least we shall be able to tell whether they have the book of Portland
charts," sighed Lucile as she prepared to make a dash for the shadows.

"Now," she breathed; "there's no one in sight."

Like two lead-colored drifts of fog they glided into a place by the
window.

Lucile was first to look. The place seemed quite familiar to her. Indeed,
at first glance she would have said that nothing was changed. The old man
sat in his chair. Half in a doze, he had doubtless drifted into the sort
of day-dream that old persons often indulge in. The child, too, sat by
the table. She was sewing. That she meant to go out later was proved by
the fact that her coat and tam-o'-shanter lay on a near-by chair.

As I have said, Lucile's first thought was that nothing had changed. One
difference, however, did not escape her. Two books had been added to the
library. The narrow, unfilled space had been narrowed still further. One
book was tall, too tall for the space which it was supposed to occupy, so
tall that it leaned a little to the right. The other book did not appear
to be an old volume. On the contrary its back was bright and shiny as if
just coming from the press. It was highly ornamented with figures and a
title done all in gold. These fairly flashed in the lamplight.

"That's strange!" she whispered to herself.

But even as she thought it, she realized that this was no ordinary
publishers' binding.

"Leather," she told herself, "rich leather binding and I shouldn't wonder
if the letters and decorations were done in pure gold."

Without knowing exactly why she did it, she made a mental note of every
figure which played a part in the decorating of the back of that book.

Then suddenly remembering her companion and their problem, she touched
her arm as she whispered:

"Look! Is that tall book second from the end on the shelf with the vacant
space the Portland chart book?"

Florence pressed her face to the glass and peered for the first time into
the room of mysteries. For a full two minutes she allowed the scene to be
photographed on the sensitive plates of her brain. Then turning slowly
away she whispered:

"Yes, I believe it is."

They were just thinking of seeking a place of greater safety when a
footstep sounded on the pavement close at hand. Crouching low they waited
the stranger's passing.

To their consternation, he did not pass but turned in at the short walk
which led up to the cottage.

Crouching still lower, scarcely breathing, they waited.

The man made his way directly to the door. After apparently fumbling
about for an electric button, he suddenly flashed out an electric torch.

With an inaudible gasp Florence prepared to drag her companion out of
their place of danger. But to their intense relief the man flashed the
light off, then gave the door a resounding knock.

That one flash of light had been sufficient to reveal to Lucile the
features of his face. She recognized it instantly. In her surprise she
gripped her companion's arm until she was ready to cry out with pain.

The door flew open. The man entered. The door was closed.

"Look!" whispered Lucile, pressing Florence toward the spot where the
light streamed out. "Look, I know him."

She gave Florence but a half moment, then dragging her from the place of
vantage pressed her own face to the glass.

"This would be abominable," she whispered, "if it weren't for the fact
that we are trying to help them--trying to find a way out."

The man, a very young man with a slight moustache, had removed his coat
and hat and had taken a seat. He was talking to the old man. He did the
greater part of the talking. Every now and again he would pause and the
old man would shake his head.

This pantomime was kept up for some time. At last the young man rose and
walked toward the bookshelves. The old man half rose in his chair as if
to detain him, then settled back again.

The young man's eyes roved over the books, then came to rest suddenly in
a certain spot. Then his hand went out.

The old man sprang to his feet. There were words on his lips. What they
were the girls could not tell.

Smiling with the good-natured grace of one who is accustomed to have what
he desires, the young man opened the book to glance at the title page. At
once his face became eager. He glanced hurriedly through the book. He
turned to put a question to the old man beside him.

The old man nodded.

Instantly the young man's hand was in his pocket. The two girls shrank
back in fear. But the thing he took from his pocket was a small book,
apparently a check book.

Speaking, he held the check book toward the old man. The old man shook
his head. This touch of drama was repeated three times. Then, with a
disappointed look on his face, the young man replaced the book, turned to
the chair on which his hat and coat rested, put them on, said good night
to the old man, bowed to the child and was gone.

The two girls, after stretching their cramped limbs, made their way
safely to the sidewalk.

"Who--who was he?" whispered Florence through chattering teeth.

"R. Stanley Ramsey."

"Not the rich Ramsey?"

"His son."

"What did he want?"

"I don't know," said Lucile, "but it may be that we have found the man
higher up, the real criminal. It may be that this rich young fellow is
getting them to steal the books so he can buy them cheap."

Lucile told of the incident regarding the copy of "The Compleat Angler."

"He said he thought he knew where there was another copy. Don't you see,
he may have gotten the girl to steal it. And now he comes for it and is
disappointed because they haven't got it for him."

"It might be," said Florence doubtfully, "but it doesn't seem probable,
does it? He must have plenty of money."

"Perhaps his father doesn't give him a large allowance. Then, again,
perhaps, he thinks such things are smart. They say that some rich men's
sons are that way. There's something that happened in there though that I
don't understand. He--"

"Hist," whispered Florence, dragging her into a slow walk; "here comes
the child."

Once more they saw the slim wisp of a girl steal out like a ghost into
the night.

CHAPTER X
MYSTERIES OF THE SEA

The trail over which the mystery child led them that night revealed
nothing. Indeed, she eluded them, escaping the moment she left the
elevated train at a down town station.

"Nothing to do but go home," said Florence in a disappointed tone.

"Oh, well, cheer up," smiled Lucile. "We've had a new chapter added to
our mystery, as well as a whole new character who promises to become
interesting. But look, Florence," she whispered suddenly. "No, don't
stare, just glance down toward the end of the platform. See that man?"

"The one with his collar turned up and with his back to us?"

"Yes."

"That's the man who passed us when we were on our way to the mystery
cottage."

"Are you sure?"

"Can't be mistaken. Same coat, same hat, same everything."

"Why then--"

Florence checked herself. A moment later she said in a quiet tone of
voice:

"Lucile, don't you think it's about time we waded ashore? Came clear and
got out of this affair; turned facts over to the authorities and allowed
them to take their course?"

Lucile was silent for a moment. Then suddenly she shivered all over and
whispered tensely:

"No--no, not quite yet."

"We may get in over our necks."

"I can swim. Can't you?"

"I'll try," Florence laughed, and there for the time the matter ended.

Lucile worked in the library two hours the next day. One fact could not
escape her attention. Harry Brock had been losing a lot of sleep. She saw
him rubbing his eyes from time to time and once he actually nodded over
his records.

"Been studying late?" she asked in friendly sympathy.

He shot her a quick, penetrating glance, then, seeming to catch himself,
said, "Oh, yes, quite a bit."

That afternoon, finding study difficult and being in need of a theme for
a special article to be written for English 5b, she decided to use her
card of admittance to the bindery and glean the material for the theme
from that institution.

She could scarcely have chosen a more fitting subject, for there are few
places more interesting than a famous book bindery. Unfortunately,
something occurred while she was there that quite drove all the thoughts
of her theme out of her head and added to her already over-burdened
shoulders an increased weight of responsibility.

A famous bindery is a place of many wonders. The stitching machines, the
little and great presses, the glowing fires that heat irons for the
stamping, all these and many more lend an air of industry, mystery and
fine endeavor to the place.

Not in the general bindery, where thousands of books are bound each day,
did Lucile find her chief interest, however. It was when she had been
shown into a small side room, into which the natural sunlight shone
through a broad window, that she realized that she had reached the heart
of the place.

"This," said the young man attending her, "is the hand bindery. Few books
are bound here; sometimes not more than six a year, but they are
handsomely, wonderfully bound. Mr. Kirkland, the head of this department,
will tell you all about it. I hear my autophone call. I will come for you
a little later."

Lucile was not sorry to be left alone in such a room. It was a place of
rare enchantment. Seated at their benches, bending over their work, with
their blue fires burning before them, were three skilled workmen. They
were more than workmen; they were artists. The work turned out by them
rivaled in beauty and perfection the canvas of the most skilled painter.
They wrought in inlaid leather and gold; the artist in crayon and oils.
The artist uses palette, knife and brush; their steel tools were
fashioned to suit their art.

Ranged along one side of the room was a long rack in which these tools
were kept. There were hundreds of them, and each tool had its place.
Every now and again from the benches there came a hot sizzling sound,
which meant that one of these tools was being tested after having been
heated over the flame.

Seeing her looking at the rack of tools, the head workman, a
broad-shouldered man with a pleasant smile and keen blue eyes, turned
toward her.

"Would you like to have me tell you a little about them?" he asked.

"Indeed I should."

"Those tools once belonged to Hans Wiemar, the most famous man ever known
to the craft. After he died I bought them from his widow. He once spent
three years binding a single book. It was to be presented to the king of
England. He was a very skillful artisan.

"We bind some pretty fine books here, too," he said modestly. "Here is
one I am only just beginning. You see it is a very large book, a book of
poetry printed in the original German. I shall be at least two months
doing it.

"The last one I had was much smaller but it was to have taken me four
months."

A shadow passed over his face.

"Did--did you finish it?" asked Lucile, a tone of instinctive sympathy in
her voice.

"It was an ancient French book, done in the oldest French type. It was
called 'Mysteries of the Sea,'" he went on without answering her
question. "This was the tool we used most on it," he said, holding out
the edge of a steel tool for her inspection. "You see, the metal is
heated and pressed into the leather in just the right way, then gold,
twenty-two carat gold, is pressed into the creases that are left and we
have a figure in gold as a result. This one you see is in the form of an
ancient sailing ship."

Lucile started, then examined the tool more carefully.

"Here is another tool we used. It represents clouds. This one makes the
water. You see we use appropriate tools. The book was about ships and the
sea, written before the time of Columbus."

He was silent for a moment, then said slowly, a look of pain coming into
his fine face, "I suppose I might as well tell you. The book was stolen,
stolen from my bench during the lunch hour."

Lucile started violently.

The artist stared at her for a second, then went on.

"Of course, I can't be held responsible, yet no doubt they blame me in a
way. The book was very valuable--worth thousands of dollars. And it would
have been finished in two days." He bowed his head as if in silent grief.

"Please," Lucile's lips quivered with emotion as she spoke, "did the book
have three of these ancient ship designs on the back of it, one large and
two small?"

"Yes."

"And was it done in dark red leather with the decorations all in gold?"

"Yes, yes!" the man's tones were eager.

"And, and," Lucile whispered the words, "was there a bookmark in the
upper corner of the inside of the front cover?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" He uttered the words in a tense whisper. "How can you
know so much about the book?"

"Please," pleaded Lucile, "I can't tell you now. But per--perhaps I can
help you."

"I will take you to our president, to Mr. Silver."

"Please--please--no--not now. Please let me go now. I must think. I will
come back--truly--truly I will."

With the instinct of a born gentleman he escorted her to a side door and
let her out.

The sunshine, as she emerged, seemed unreal to her. Everything seemed
unreal.

"The gargoyle! The gargoyle!" she whispered hoarsely. "Can I never escape
it? Can I go no place without discovering that books marked with that
hated, haunting sign have been stolen? That book, the hand-bound copy of
'Mysteries of the Sea,' is the latest acquirement of the old man in the
mystery cottage on Tyler street. She stole it; the child stole it. And
why? Why? It seems that I should tell all that I know," she whispered to
herself, "that it is my duty. Surely the thing can't go on." She bathed
her flushed cheeks in the outer air.

"And yet," she thought more calmly, "there are the old man, the child.
There _is_ something back of it all. The gargoyle's secret. Oh! if only
one knew!"

CHAPTER XI
LUCILE SHARES HER SECRET

As Lucile returned to her room it seemed to her that she was being hedged
about on all sides by friends who had a right to demand that she reveal
the secret hiding-place of the stolen books. The university which had
done so much for her, Frank Morrow, her father's friend, the great
scientific library which was a friend to all, and now this splendid
artist who worked in leather and gold; they all appeared to be reaching
out their hands to her.

In her room for two hours she paced the floor. Then she came to a
decision.

"I'll tell one of them; tell the whole story and leave it to him. Who
shall it be?"

The answer came to her instantly: Frank Morrow.

"Yes, he's the one," she whispered. "He's the most human of them all.
White-haired as he is, I believe he can understand the heart of a child
and--and of a girl like me."

She found him busy with some customers. When he had completed the sale
and the customers had gone, she drew her chair close to his and told him
the story frankly from beginning to end. The only thing she left out was
the fact that she held suspicions against the young millionaire's son.

"If there's ground for suspicion, he'll discover it," she told herself.

Frank Morrow listened attentively. At times he leaned forward with the
light on his face that one sometimes sees upon the face of a boy who is
hearing a good story of pirates and the sea.

"Well," he dampened his lips as she finished, "well!"

For some time after that there was silence in the room, a silence so
profound that the ticking of Frank Morrow's watch sounded loud as a
grandfather's clock.

At last Frank Morrow wheeled about in his chair and spoke.

"You know, Miss Lucile," he said slowly, "I am no longer a child, except
in spirit. I have read a great deal. I have thought a great deal, sitting
alone in this chair, both by day and by night. Very often I have thought
of us, of the whole human race, of our relation to the world, to the
being who created us and to one another.

"I have come to think of life like this," he said, his eyes kindling. "It
may seem a rather gloomy philosophy of life, but when you think of it,
it's a mighty friendly one. I think of the whole human race as being on a
huge raft in mid-ocean. There's food and water enough for everyone if all
of us are saving, careful and kind. Not one of us knows how we came on
the raft. No one knows whither we are bound. From time to time we hear
the distant waves break on some shore, but what shore we cannot tell. The
earth, of course, is our raft and the rest of the universe our sea.

"What's the answer to all this? Just this much: Since we are so situated,
the greatest, best thing, the thing that will bring us the greatest
amount of real happiness, is to be kind to all, especially those weaker
than ourselves, just as we would if we were adrift on a raft in the
Atlantic.

"Without all this philosophy, you have caught the spirit of the thing. I
can't advise you. I can only offer to assist you in any way you may
suggest. It's a strange case. The old man is doubtless a crank. Many book
collectors are. It may be, however, that there is some stronger hand back
of it all. The girl appears to be the old man's devoted slave and is too
young truly to understand right from wrong. I should say, however, that
she is clever far beyond her years."

Lucile left the shop strengthened and encouraged. She had not found a
solution to her problem but had been told by one much older and wiser
than she that she was not going at the affair in the wrong way. She had
received his assurance of his assistance at any time when it seemed
needed.

That night a strange thing happened. Lucile had learned by repeated
experience that very often the solution of life's perplexing problems
comes to us when we are farthest from them and engaged in work or pursuit
of pleasure which is most remote from them. Someone had given her a
ticket to the opera. Being a lover of music, she had decided to abandon
her work and the pursuit of the all-absorbing mystery, to forget herself
listening to outbursts of enchanting song.

The outcome had been all that she might hope for. Lost in the great
swells of music which came to her from hundreds of voices or enchanted by
the range and beauty of a single voice, she forgot all until the last
curtain had been called and the crowd thronged out.

There was a flush on her cheek and new light in her eyes as she felt the
cool outer air of the street.

She had walked two blocks to her station and was about to mount the
stairs when, to her utter astonishment, she saw the mystery child dart
across the street. Almost by instinct she went in full pursuit.

The child, all oblivious of her presence, after crossing the street,
darted down an alley and, after crossing two blocks, entered one of those
dark and dingy streets which so often flank the best and busiest avenues
of a city.

At the third door to the left, a sort of half basement entrance that one
reached by descending a short stairs, the child paused and fumbled at the
doorknob. Lucile was just in time to get a view of the interior as the
door flew open. The next instant she sprang back into the shadows.

She gripped at her wildly beating heart and steadied herself against the
wall as she murmured, "It couldn't be! Surely! Surely it could not be."

And yet she was convinced that her eyes had not deceived her. The person
who had opened the door was none other than the woman who had treated the
child so shamefully and had dragged her along the street. And now the
child had come to the door of the den which this woman called home and of
her own free will had entered the place and shut the door. What could be
the meaning of all this.

Some mysteries are long in solving. Some are apparently never solved.
Some scarcely become mysteries before their solution appears. This
mystery was of the latter sort.

Plucking up all the courage she could command, Lucile made her way down
the steps and, crowding herself through a narrow opening, succeeded in
reaching a position by a window. Here she could see without being seen
and could catch fragments of the conversation which went on within.

The child had advanced to the center of the room. The woman and a man,
worse in appearance, more degraded than the woman, stood staring at her.
There was something heroic about the tense, erect bearing of the child.

"Like Joan of Arc," Lucile thought.

The child was speaking. The few words that Lucile caught sent thrills
into her very soul.

The child was telling the woman that she had had a book, which belonged
to her friend, Monsieur Le Bon. This book was very old and much prized by
him. She had had it with her that other night in a lunch box. The woman
had taken it. She had come for it. It must be given back.

As the child finished, the woman burst into a hoarse laugh. Then she
launched forth in a tirade of abusive language. She did not admit having
the book nor yet deny it. She was too intent upon abusing the child and
the old man who had befriended her for that.

At last she sprang at the child. The child darted for the door, but the
man had locked and bolted it. There followed a scramble about the room
which resulted in the upsetting of chairs and the knocking of kitchen
utensils from the wall. At last the child, now fighting and sobbing, was
roped to the high post of an ancient bedstead.

Then, to Lucile's horror, she saw the man thrust a heavy iron poker
through the grate of the stove in which a fire burned brightly.

Her blood ran cold. Chills raced up her spine. What was the man's
purpose? Certainly nothing good. Whatever these people were to the child,
whatever the child might be, the thing must be stopped. The child had at
least done one heroic deed; she had come back for that book, the book
which at this moment rested in Lucile's own room, Frank Morrow's book.
She had come for it knowing what she must face and had come not through
fear but through love for her patriarchal friend, Monsieur Le Bon.
Somehow she must be saved.

With a courage born of despair, Lucile made her way from the position by
the window toward the door. As she did so, she thought she caught a
movement on the street above her. She was sure that a second later she
heard the sound of lightly running footsteps. Had she been watched from
above? What was to come of that? There was no time to form an answer. One
hand was on the knob. With the other she beat the door. The door swung
open. She stepped inside. It seemed to her that the door shut itself
behind her. For a second her heart stood still as she realized that the
man was behind her; that the door was bolted.

CHAPTER XII
THE TRIAL BY FIRE

The moment Lucile heard the lock click behind her she knew that she was
trapped. But her fighting blood was up. Even had the door been wide open
she would not have retreated.

"You release that child," she said through cold, set lips.

"Yes, you tell me 'release the child,'" said the woman, with an attempt
at sarcasm; "you who are so brave, who have a companion who is like an
ox, who likes to beat up poor women on the street. You say, 'release the
child.' You say that. And the child, she is my own stepdaughter."

"I--I don't believe it," said Lucile stoutly.

"It is true."

"If it is true, you have no right to abuse her--you are not fit to be any
child's mother."

"Not fit," the woman's face became purple with rage. "I am no good, she
says; not fit!" She advanced threateningly toward Lucile.

"Now, now," she stormed, "we have you where we want you. Now we shall
show you whether or not we can do as we please with the child that was so
very kindly given to us." She made a move toward the stove, from which
the handle to the heavy poker protruded. By this time the end must be red
hot.

"It's no use to threaten me," said Lucile calmly. "I wouldn't leave the
room if I might. If I did it would be to bring an officer. I mean to see
that the child is treated as a human being and not as a dog."

The woman's face once more became purple. She seemed petrified, quite
unable to move, from sheer rage.

But the man, a sallow-complexioned person with a perpetual leer in one
corner of his mouth, started for the stove.

With a quick spring Lucile reached the handle of the poker first. Seizing
it, she drew it, white hot, from the fire. The man sprang back in fear.
The woman gripped the rounds of a heavy chair and made as if to lift it
for a blow.

Scarcely realizing that she was imitating her hero of fiction, she
brought the glowing iron close to the white and tender flesh of her
forearm.

"You think you can frighten me," she smiled. "You think you can do
something to me which will cause me to cease to attempt to protect that
child. Perhaps you would torture me. I will prove to you that you cannot
frighten me. What I have been doing is right. The world was made for
people to live in who do right. If one may not always do right, then life
is not worth living."

The fiery weapon came closer to her arm. The woman stared at her as if
fascinated. The child, who had been silently struggling at her bands,
paused in open-mouthed astonishment. For once the leer on the man's lips
vanished.

Then, of a sudden, as she appeared to catch the meaning of it all, the
child gave forth a piercing scream.

The next instant there came a loud pounding at the door as a gruff voice
thundered:

"Here, you in there! Open up!"

The woman dropped upon the ill-kept bed in a real or pretended swoon.
Lucile allowed the poker to drop to her side. With trembling fingers the
man unloosed the door and the next instant they were looking into the
faces of a police sergeant and two other officers of the law.

"What's going on here?" demanded the sergeant.

Suddenly recovering from her swoon, the woman sprang to her feet.

"That young lady," she pointed an accusing finger at Lucile, "is
attempting to break up our home."

The officer looked them over one by one.

"What's the girl tied up for?" he demanded.

"It's the only way we can keep her home," said the woman. "That young
lady's been enticing her away; her and an old wretch of a man."

"Your daughter?"

"My adopted daughter."

"What about it, little one?" the officer stepped over, and cutting the
girl's bands, placed a hand on the child's head. "Is what she says true?"

"I--I don't know," she faltered. Her knees trembled so she could scarcely
stand. "I never saw the young lady until now but I--I think she is
wonderful."

"Is this woman your stepmother."

The girl hung her head.

"Do you wish to stay with her?"

"Oh! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! No! No! No! Oh, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!"

The child in her agony of fright and grief threw herself face down upon
the bed.

The officer, seating himself beside her, smoothed her hair with his huge
right hand until she was quiet, then bit by bit got from her the story of
her experiences in this great American city. Lucile listened eagerly as
the little girl talked falteringly.

A Belgian refugee, she had been brought to the United States during the
war, and because this unprincipled pair spoke French, which she too
understood, the good-hearted but misguided people who had her in charge
had given her over to them without fully looking up their record.

Because she was small and had an appealing face, and because she was a
refugee, they had set her to begging on the street and had more than once
asked her to steal.

Having been brought up by conscientious parents, all this was repulsive
to her. So one day she had run away. She had wandered the streets of the
great, unfriendly city until, almost at the point of starvation, she had
been taken home by a very old man, a Frenchman.

"French," she said, "but not like these," she pointed a finger of scorn
at the man and woman. "A French gentleman. A very, very wonderful man."

She had lived with him and had helped him all she could. Then, one night,
as she was on an errand for him, the woman, her stepmother, had found
her. She had been seized and dragged along the street. But by some
strange chance she did not at all understand, she had been rescued.

That night she had been carrying a book. The book belonged to her aged
benefactor and was much prized by him. Thinking that her foster mother
had the book, she had dared return to ask for it.

She proceeded to relate what had happened in that room and ended with a
plea that she might be allowed to return to the cottage on Tyler street.

"Are you interested in this child?" the officer asked Lucile.

"I surely am."

"Want to see that she gets safely home?"

"I--I will."

"And see here," the officer turned a stern face on the others, "if you
interfere with this child in the future, we've got enough on you to put
you away. You ain't fit to be no child's parents. Far as I can tell, this
here old man is. This case, for the present, is settled out of court.
See!"

He motioned to his subordinates. They stood at attention until Lucile and
the child passed out, then followed.

The sergeant saw the girl and the child safely on the elevated platform,
then, tipping his hat, mumbled:

"Good luck and thank y' miss. I've got two of 'em myself. An' if anything
ever happened to me, I'd like nothin' better'n to have you take an
interest in 'em."

Something rose up in Lucile's throat and choked her. She could only nod
her thanks. The next instant they went rattling away, bound for the
mystery cottage on Tyler street.

For once Lucile felt richly repaid for all the doubt, perplexity and
sleepless hours she had gone through.

"It's all very strange and mysterious," she told herself, "but somehow,
sometime, it will all come out right."

As she sat there absorbed in her own thoughts, she suddenly became
conscious of the fact that the child at her side was silently weeping.

"Why!" she exclaimed, "what are you crying for? You are going back to
your cottage and to your kind old man."

"The book," whispered the child; "it is gone. I can never return it."

A sudden impulse seized Lucile, an impulse she could scarcely resist. She
wanted to take the child in her arms and say:

"Dear little girl, I have the book in my room. I will bring it to you
to-morrow."

She did not say it. She could not. As far as she knew, the old man had no
right to the book; it belonged to Frank Morrow.

What she did say was, "I shouldn't worry any more about it if I were you.
I am sure it will come out all right in the end."

Then, before they knew it, they were off the elevated train and walking
toward Tyler street and Lucile was saying to herself, "I wonder what
next." Hand-in-hand the two made their way to the door of the dingy old
cottage.

CHAPTER XIII
IN THE MYSTERY ROOM AT NIGHT

Much to her surprise, just when she had expected to be trudging back to
the station alone, Lucile found herself seated by a table in the mystery
room. She was sipping a delicious cup of hot chocolate and talking to the
mystery child and her mysterious godfather. Every now and again she
paused to catch her breath. It was hard for her to realize that she was
in the mystery room of the mysterious cottage on Tyler street. Yet there
she certainly was. The child had invited her in.

A dim, strangely tinted light cast dark shadows over everything. The
strange furniture took on grotesque forms. The titles of the books along
the wall gleamed out in a strange manner.

For a full five minutes the child talked to the old man in French. He
exclaimed now and then, but other than that took no part in the
conversation.

When she had finished, he held out a thin, bony hand to Lucile and said
in perfect English:

"Accept my thanks for what you have done to protect this poor little one,
my pretty Marie. You are a brave girl and should have a reward. But,
alas, I have little to give save my books and they are an inheritance, an
inheritance thrice removed. They were my great-grandfather's and have
descended direct to me. One is loath to part with such treasure."

"There is no need for any reward," said Lucile quickly. "I did it because
I was interested in the child. But," with a sudden inspiration, "if you
wish to do me a favor, tell me the story of your life."

The man gave her a quick look.

"You are so--so old," she hastened to add, "and so venerable, so
soldier-like, so like General Joffre. Your life must have been a
wonderful one."

"Ah, yes," the old man settled back in his chair. As if to brush a mist
from before his eyes, he made a waving motion with his hand. "Ah, yes, it
has been quite wonderful, that is, I may say it once was.

"I was born near a little town named Gondrecourt in the province of Meuse
in France. There was a small chateau, very neat and beautiful, with a
garden behind it, with a bit of woods and broad acres for cattle and
grain. All that was my father's. It afterwards became mine.

"In one room of the chateau were many, many ancient volumes, some in
French, some in English, for my father was a scholar, as also he educated
me to be.

"These books were the cream of many generations, some dating back before
the time of Columbus."

Lucile, thinking of the book of ancient Portland charts, allowed her gaze
for a second to stray to the shelf where it reposed.

Again the man threw her a questioning look, but once more went on with
his narrative of his life in far-off France.

"Of all the treasures of field, garden, woods or chateau, the ones most
prized by me were those ancient books. So, year after year I guarded them
well, guarded them until an old man, in possession of all that was once
my father's, I used to sit of an evening looking off at the fading hills
at eventide with one of those books in my lap.

"Then came the war." Again his hand went up to dispel the imaginary mist.
"The war took my two sons. They never came back. It took my three
grandsons. We gave gladly, for was it not our beloved France that was in
danger? They, too, never returned."

The old man's hand trembled as he brushed away the imaginary mist.

"I borrowed money to give to France. I mortgaged my land, my cattle, my
chateau; only my treasure of books I gave no man a chance to take. They
must be mine until I died. They of all the treasures I must keep.

"One night," his voice grew husky, "one night there came a terrible
explosion. The earth rocked. Stones of the castle fell all about the
yard. The chateau was in ruins. It was a bomb from an airplane.

"Someway the library was not touched. It alone was safe. How thankful I
was that it was so. It was now all that was left.

"I took my library to a small lodging in the village. Then, when the war
was ended, I packed all my books in strong boxes and started for Paris."

He paused. His head sank upon his breast. His lips quivered. It was as if
he were enduring over again some great sorrow.

"Perhaps," he said after a long time, "one is foolish to grieve over what
some would say is a trifle compared to other losses. But one comes to
love books. They are his very dear friends. With them he shares his great
pleasures. In times of sorrow they console him. Ah, yes, how wonderful
they are, these books?" His eyes turned toward the shelves.

Then, suddenly, his voice changed. He hastened on. He seemed to desire to
have done with it. One might have believed that there was something he
was keeping back which he was afraid his lips might speak.

"I came to America," he said hoarsely, "and here I am in your great
city, alone save for this blessed child, and--and my books--some of my
books--most of my books."

Again he was silent. The room fell into such a silence that the very
breathing of the old man sounded out like the exhaust of an engine.
Somewhere in another room a clock ticked. It was ghostly.

Shaking herself free from the spell of it, Lucile said, "I--I think I must
go."

"No! No!" cried the old man. "Not until you have seen some of my
treasures, my books."

Leading her to the shelves, he took down volume after volume. He placed
them in her hands with all the care of a salesman displaying rare and
fragile china.

She looked at the outside of some; then made bold to open the covers and
peep within. They were all beyond doubt very old and valuable. But one
fact stood out in her mind as she finally bade them good night, stood out
as if embossed upon her very soul: In the inside upper corner of the
cover of every volume, done on expensive, age-browned paper, there was
the same gargoyle, the same letter L as had been in the other mysterious
volumes.

"The gargoyle's secret," she whispered as she came out upon the dark,
damp streets. "The gargoyle's secret. I wonder what it is!"

Then she started as if in fear that the gargoyle were behind her, about
to spring at her from the dark.

CHAPTER XIV
A STRANGE REQUEST

"But, Lucile!" exclaimed Florence in an excited whisper, springing up in
her bed after she had heard Lucile's story. "How did the police know that
something was going wrong in that house? How did they come to be right
there when you needed them most?"

"That's just what I asked the sergeant," answered Lucile, "and he just
shrugged his shoulders and said, 'Somebody tipped it off.'"

"Which meant, I suppose, that someone reported the fact to police
headquarters that something was wrong in that house."

"I suppose so."

"Is that all you know about it?"

"Why, I--I thought I heard someone hurrying away on the sidewalk just as I
was going to enter."

"You don't suppose--"

"Oh, I don't know what to suppose," Lucile gave a short, hysterical
laugh. "It is getting to be much too complicated for me. I can't stand it
much longer. Something's going to burst. I think all the time that
someone is dogging my tracks. I think someone must suspect me of being in
league with this old man and the child."

"But if they did, why should they call the police for your protection?"

"Yes, why? Why? A whole lot of whys. And who would suspect me? I would
trust Frank Morrow to keep faith with me. I am sure he trusts me fully.
The Portland chart book affair I was not in at all. The bindery would
scarcely suspect me. There's only our own library left. You don't think--"

"One scarcely knows what to think," said Florence wearily. "We sometimes
forget that we are but two poor girls who are more or less dependent on
the university for our support while we secure an education. Perhaps you
should have confided in the library authorities in the beginning."

"Perhaps. But it's too late now. I must see the thing through."

"You don't believe the old Frenchman's story."

"I don't know. It's hard to doubt it. He seems so sincere. There's
something left out, I suppose."

"Of course there is. In order to keep from starving, he was obliged to
sell some of his books. Then, being heartbroken over the loss of them, he
has induced the child to steal them back for him. That seems sensible
enough, doesn't it? Of course it's a pity that he should have been forced
to sell them, but they were, in a way, a luxury. We all are obliged to
give up some luxuries. For my part, I don't see how you are going to keep
him out of jail. The child will probably come clear because of her age,
but there's not a chance in a million of saving him. There's got to be a
show-down sometime. Why not now? The facts we have in our possession are
the rightful property of others, of our library, Frank Morrow, the
scientific library, of the Silver-Barnard bindery. Why not pass them on?"

Florence was sitting bolt upright in bed. She pointed her finger at her
roommate by way of emphasis.

But, tired and perplexed as she was, Lucile never flinched.

"Your logic is all right save for two things," she smiled wearily.

"What two?"

"The character of the old man and the character of the child. They could
not do the thing you suggest. No, not for far greater reward. Not in a
thousand years." She beat the bed with her hands. "There must be some
other explanation. There must. There must!"

For a moment there was silence in the room. Lucile removed her street
garments, put on her dream robe, then crept into bed.

"Oh," she sighed, "I forgot to tell you what that extraordinary child
asked me to do."

"What?"

"She said she had an errand to do for the old Frenchman; that it would
take her a long way from home and she was afraid to go alone. She asked
me if I would go with her."

"What did you tell her?"

"I--I told her that both my roommate and I would go."

"You did!"

"Why, yes."

"Well," said Florence, after a moment's thought, "I'll go, but if it's
another frightful robbery, if she's going to break in somewhere and carry
away some book worth thousands of dollars, I'm not in on it. I--I'll drag
her to the nearest police station and our fine little mystery will end
right there."

"Oh, I don't think it can be anything like that," said Lucile sleepily.
"Anyway, we can only wait and see."

With that she turned her right cheek over on the pillow and was instantly
fast asleep.

CHAPTER XV
A STRANGE JOURNEY

The hours of the following day dragged as if on leaden wings. With nerves
worn to single strands, Lucile was now literally living on excitement.
The fact that she was to go with the mystery child on a night's trip
which held promise of excitement and possible adventure in it, went far
toward keeping her eyes open and on their task, but for all this, the
hours dragged.

At the library she was startled to note the worn and haggard look on
Harry Brock's face. She wanted to ask him the cause of it and to offer
sympathy, but he appeared to actually avoid her. Whenever she found some
excuse to move in his direction, he at once found one for moving away to
another corner of the library.

"Whatever can be the matter with him?" she asked herself. "I wonder if I
could have offended him in any way. I should hate to lose his
friendship."

Night came at last and with it the elevated station and Tyler street.

With her usual promptness, the child led them to a surface car. They rode
across the city. From the car they hurried to an inter-urban depot of a
steam line.

"So it's to be out of the city," Florence whispered to Lucile. "I hadn't
counted on that. It may be more than we bargained for."

"I hope not," shivered Lucile. "I've been all warmed up over this trip
the whole day through and now when we are actually on the way I feel cold
as a clam and sort of creepy all over. Do--do you suppose it will be
anything very dreadful?"

"Why, no!" laughed Florence. "Far as feelings go mine have been just the
opposite to yours. I didn't want to go and felt that way all day, but now
it would take all the conductors in the service to put me off the train."

With all the seriousness of a grown-up, the child purchased tickets for
them all, and now gave them to the conductor without so much as
suggesting their destination to the girls.

"I don't know where I'm going but I'm on my way," whispered Florence with
a smile.

"Seems strange, doesn't it?" said Lucile.

"Sh," warned Florence.

The child had turned a smiling face toward them.

"I think it's awfully good of you to come," she beamed. "It's a long way
and I'm afraid we'll be late getting home, but you won't have to do
anything, not really, just go along with me. It's a dreadfully lonesome
place. There's a long road you have to go over and the road crosses a
river and there is woods on both sides of the river. Woods are awful sort
of spooky at night, don't you think so?"

Florence smiled and nodded. Lucile shivered.

"I don't mind the city," the child went on, "not any of it. There are
always people everywhere and things can't be spooky there, but right out
on the roads and in the woods and on beaches where the water goes
wash-wash-wash at night, I don't like that, do you?"

"Sometimes I do," said Florence. "I think I'm going to like it a lot
to-night."

"Oh, are you?" exclaimed the child. "Then I'm glad, because it was
awfully nice of you to come."

"A long road, woods and a river," Florence repeated in Lucile's ear.
"Wherever can we be going? I supposed we would get off at one of the
near-in suburbs."

"Evidently," said Lucile, forcing a smile, "we are in for a night of it.
I'm going to catch forty winks. Call me when we get to the road that
crosses the river in the woods." She bent her head down upon one hand and
was soon fast asleep.

She was awakened by a shake from Florence. "We're here. Come on, get
off."

What they saw on alighting was not reassuring. A small red depot, a
narrow, irregular platform, a square of light through which they saw a
young man with a green shade over his eyes bending before a table filled
with telegraph instruments; this was all they saw. Beyond these, like the
entrance to some huge, magical cave, the darkness loomed at them.

The child appeared to know the way, even in the dark, for she pulled at
Florence's sleeve as she whispered:

"This way please. Keep close to me."

There was not the least danger of the girls' failing to keep close, for,
once they had passed beyond sight of that friendly square of light and
the green-shaded figure, they were hopelessly lost.

True, the darkness shaded off a trifle as their eyes became more
accustomed to it; they could tell that they were going down a badly kept,
sandy road; they could see the dim outline of trees on either side; but
that was all. The trees seemed a wall which shut them in on either side.

"Trees _are_ spooky at night," Lucile whispered as she gripped her
companion's arm a little more tightly.

"Where are we?" Florence whispered.

"I couldn't guess."

"Pretty far out. I counted five stops after the lights of the city
disappeared."

"Listen."

"What is it?"

"Water rushing along somewhere."

"Might be the river. She said there was one."

"Rivers rush like that in the mountains but not here. Must be the lake
shore."

"Hist--"

The child was whispering back at them. "We are coming to the bridge. It's
a very long bridge, and spooky. I think we better tiptoe across it, but
we mustn't run. The gallopin' goblins'll come after us if we do; besides,
there's an old rusty sign on the bridge that says, 'No trotting across
the bridge.'"

The next moment they felt a plank surface beneath their feet and knew
they were on the bridge. It must have been a very ancient bridge. This
road had never been remodelled to fit the need of automobiles. The planks
rattled and creaked in an ominous manner in spite of their tiptoeing.

"I wonder how much more there is of it," Florence groaned in a whisper
when they had gone on tiptoes for what seemed an endless space of time.
"If my toes don't break, I'm sure my shoes will."

As for Lucile, she was thinking her own thoughts. She was telling herself
that if it were not for the fact that this night's performance gave
promise of being a link in the chain of circumstances which were to be
used in dragging the gargoyle's secret from its lair, she would demand
that the child turn about and lead them straight back to the city.

Since she had faith that somehow the mystery was to be solved and her
many worries and perplexities brought to an end, she tiptoed doggedly on.
And it was well that she did, for the events of this one night were
destined to bring about strange and astounding revelations. She was not
to see the light of day again before the gargoyle's secret would be fully
revealed, but had she known the series of thrilling events which would
lead up to that triumphant hour, she would have shrunk back and
whispered, "No, no, I can't go all that way."

Often and often we find this true in life; we face seemingly unbearable
situations--something is to happen to us, we are to go somewhere, be
something different, do some seemingly undoable thing and we say, "We
cannot endure it," yet we pass through it as through a fog to come out
smiling on the other side. We are better, happier and stronger for the
experience. It was to be so with Lucile.

The bridge was crossed at last. More dark and silent woods came to flank
their path. Then out of the distance there loomed great bulks of darker
masses.

"Mountains, I'd say they were," whispered Lucile, "if it weren't for the
fact that I know there are none within five hundred miles."

For a time they trudged along in silence. Then suddenly Florence
whispered:

"Oh, I know! Dunes! Sand dunes! Now I know where we are. We are near the
lake shore. I was out here somewhere for a week last summer. By day it's
wonderful; regular mountains of sand that has been washed up and blown up
from the bed of the lake. Some of them are hundreds of feet above the
level of the lake. There are trees growing on them and everything."

"But what are we doing out here?"

"I can't guess. There is a wonderful beach everywhere and cottages here
and there."

"But it's too late for summer cottages. They must all be closed."

"Yes, of course they must."

Again they trudged on in silence. Now they left the road to strike away
across the soft, yielding surface of the sand. They sank in to their
ankles. Some of the sand got into their shoes and hurt their feet, but
still they trudged on.

The rush of waters on the shore grew louder.

"I love it," Florence whispered. "I like sleeping where I can hear the
rush of water. I've slept beside the Arctic Ocean, the Behring Sea and
the Pacific. I've slept by the shore of this old lake. Once in the Rocky
Mountains I climbed to the timber-line and there slept for five nights in
a tent where all night long you could hear the rush of icy water over
rocks which were more like a stony stairway than the bed of a stream. It
was grand.

"When I am sleeping where I can hear the rush of water I sometimes half
awaken at night and imagine I am once more on the shore of the Arctic or
in a tent at the timber-line of the Rockies."

While she was whispering this they felt the sand suddenly harden beneath
their feet and knew that they had reached the beach.

"You know," the child whispered suddenly and mysteriously back at them,
"I don't like beaches at night. I lived by one when I was a very little
girl. There was a very, very old woman lived there too. She told me many
terrible stories of the sea. And do you know, once she told me something
that has made me afraid to be by the shore at night. It makes it spooky."

She suddenly seized Lucile's arm with a grip that hurt while she
whispered, "That's why I wanted you to come.

"She told me," she went on, "that old woman told me," Lucile fancied she
could see the child's frightened eyes gleaming out of the night, "about
the men who were lost at sea; brave seamen who go on ships and brave
soldiers too. Their bodies get washed all about on the bottom of the
water; the fishes eat them and by and by they are all gone. But their
souls can't be eaten. No sir, no one can eat them. The old woman told me
that."

The child paused. Her breath was coming quick. Her grip tightened on
Lucile's arm as she whispered:

"And sometimes I'm afraid one of their souls will get washed right up on
the sand at night. That's what frightens me so. What do you think it
would look like? What do you? Would it be all yellow and fiery like a
glowworm or would it be just white, like a sheet?"

"Florence," whispered Lucile, with a shiver, "tell her to be quiet.
She'll drive me mad."

But there was no need. There is much courage to be gained by telling our
secret fears to others. The child had apparently relieved her soul of a
great burden, for she tramped on once more in silence.

Several moments had passed when she suddenly paused before some dark
object which stood out above the sand.

"A boat," whispered Lucile.

"If you'll just help me," said the child, "we can push it into the
water."

"What for?" Florence asked.

"Why, to go in, of course. It's the only way."

For a moment the two girls stood there undecided. Then Florence
whispered:

"Oh, come on. It's not rough. Might as well see it through."

CHAPTER XVI
NIGHT VISITORS

A moment later they were listening to the creak of rusty oarlocks and the
almost inaudible dip-dip of the oars as the child herself sent the boat
out from the beach to bring it half about and skirt the shore.

The boat was some sixteen feet long. A clinker-built craft, it was light
and buoyant, but for all that, with three persons aboard, the rowing of
it was a tax on the strength of the child's slender arms. To add to her
troubles, the water began to rubber up a bit. Small waves came
slap-slapping the boat's side. Once a bit of spray broke in Florence's
face.

"Here," she whispered, "it's too heavy for you. Let me have the oars,
then you tell me which way to go."

"Straight ahead, only not too close in. There's a wall."

"A wall?" Lucile thought to herself. "Sounds like a prison. There's a
parole camp out here somewhere. It can't be!" she shuddered. "No, of
course not. What would that old man and child have to do with prisons?"

Then, suddenly an ugly thought forced its way into her mind. Perhaps
after all these two were members of a gang of robbers. Perhaps a member
of the gang had been in prison and was at this moment in the parole camp.
What if this turned out to be a jail-breaking expedition?

"No, no!" she whispered as she shook herself to free her mind of the
thought.

"There's the wall," whispered Florence, as a gray bulk loomed up to the
right of them.

They passed it in silence. To Lucile they seemed like marines running a
blockade in time of war.

But Florence was busy with other thoughts. That wall seemed vaguely
familiar to her. It was as if she had seen it in a dream, yet could not
recall the details of the dream.

A storm was brewing off in the west. Now and then a distant flash of
lightning lighted up the surrounding waters. Of a sudden one of these,
more brilliant than the rest, lighted up the shore, which, at a word from
the child, they were now nearing. What Florence saw was a small,
artificially dredged buoy with a dock and large boathouse at the back.

Instantly what had been a dream became a reality. She had seen that wall
and the little buoy and boathouse as well. Only the summer before she had
spent two nights and a day with a party on the dunes. They had hired a
motor boat and had skirted the shore. This place had been pointed out to
her and described as the most elaborate and beautiful summer cottage on
the shore.

"Why," she whispered, with a sigh of relief, "this is the summer cottage
of your friend, R. Stanley Ramsey, Jr., the young man you saw at Frank
Morrow's place and whom we saw later at the mystery cottage. This isn't
any brigandish thieving expedition. It is merely a business trip.
Probably the old man has sold him one of his books."

Lucile's first reaction to this news was intense relief. This was not a
jail-breaking expedition; in fact, was not to be in any way an adventure.
But the next instant doubt came.

"What would that young man be doing in a summer cottage at this time of
year?" she demanded. "All the cottages must have been closed for nearly a
month. Society flies back to the city in September. Besides, if it's
plain business, why all this slipping in at the lake front instead of
passing through the gate?"

Florence was silent at that. She had no answer.

"Does seem strange," she mused. "There's a very high fence all about the
place, but of course there must be a gate."

The next instant the boat grated on the sandy beach and they were all
climbing out.

Lucile shivered as she caught sight of a large, low, rambling building
which lay well up from the shore.

"What next?" she whispered to herself.

The storm was still rumbling in the west. The sky to the east was clear.
Out from the black waters of the lake the moon was rolling. Its light
suddenly brightened up the shore. The girls stared about them.

Up from the beach a little way was an affair which resembled an Indian
tepee. It was built of boards and covered with birch bark. Its white
sides glimmered in the moonlight. Through the shadows of trees and
shrubbery they made out a rustic pavilion and beyond that the cottage
which was built in rustic fashion as befits a summer residence of a
millionaire, although little short of a mansion.

"Wouldn't you like to see the inside of it?" breathed Florence. "I've
always wondered what such a place was like."

"Yes," whispered Lucile, "but I'd prefer daylight."

They had been following the child. She had led them as far as a rustic
arbor. Built of cedar poles with the bark left on, this presented itself
as an inviting place to rest.

"You stay here," the child whispered. "I'll come back."

She vanished into the shadows.

"Well!" whispered Lucile.

"What do you make of it?" Florence asked.

"Nothing yet."

"Is someone here to meet her or is she entering the place to get
something?"

"Don't know. I--"

Lucile stopped short. "Did you see that?" she whispered tensely as she
gripped her companion's arm.

"What?"

"There was a flash of light in the right wing of the building, like the
flicker of a match."

"She can't have reached there yet."

"No."

"Do you think we should warn her? I can't help thinking she's going to
break into the place."

"If she is, she should be caught. If we think she is, perhaps we should
notify the police."

"The police? In such a place? You forget that we are many miles from the
city and two or three miles from even a railroad station. Guess we'll
have to see it through."

"Let's do it then?"

The two girls rose and began making their way stealthily in the direction
the child had taken.

Now and again they paused to listen. Once they heard a sound like the
creaking of a door. Lucile caught a second flash of light.

They paused behind two pine trees not ten feet from the side entrance.

The wind rustled in the pine trees. The water broke ceaselessly on the
shore. Otherwise all was silence.

"Creepy," whispered Lucile.

"Ghostly," Florence shivered.

"I believe that door's ajar."

"It is."

"Let's creep up close."

The next moment found them flattened against the wall beside the door.

This door stood half open. Suddenly they caught a flash of light. Leaning
far over to peer within, they saw the child bent over before a huge
bookcase. The room, half illumined by her flashlight, was a large
lounging room. The trimmings were rustic and massive. Beamed ceiling and
heavy beams along the walls were flanked by a huge fireplace at the back.
The furniture was in keeping, massive mission oak with leather cushions
on chairs.

"What a wonderful place!" Florence whispered. "What wouldn't one give to
have it for a study?"

The child had taken three books from the shelves. All these she replaced.
She was examining the fourth when Lucile whispered, "That's the one she
has come for."

"Why?"

"The light fell full upon the inside of the cover. I saw the gargoyle
there."

The prediction proved a true one, for, after carefully closing the case,
the child switched off the light.

Scarcely realizing what they were doing, the girls lingered by the door.
Then suddenly Lucile realized their position. "She'll be here in a
second," she whispered.

They turned, but not quickly enough, for of a sudden a glare of light
from a powerful electric flashlight blinded them while a masculine voice
with a distinctly youthful ring to it demanded:

"Who's there?"

To their consternation, the girls felt the child bump into them as she
backed away and there they all stood framed in a circle of light.

The glaring light with darkness behind it made it impossible for them to
see the new arrival but Lucile knew instantly from the voice that it was
the millionaire's son.

For a full moment no one spoke. The tick-tock of a prodigious clock in
one corner of the room sounded out like the ringing of a curfew.

"Oh! I see," came at last in youthful tones from the corner; "just some
girls. And pretty ones, too, I'll be bound. Came to borrow a book, did
you? Who let you in, I wonder. But never mind. Suppose you're here for a
week-end at one of the cottages and needed some reading matter. Rather
unconventional way of getting it, but it's all right. Just drop it in the
mail box at the gate when you're done with it."

The girls suddenly became conscious of the fact that the child was doing
her best to push them out of the door.

Yielding to her backward shoves, they sank away into the shadows and,
scarcely believing their senses, found themselves apparently quite free
to go their way.

"That," breathed Florence, "was awful decent of him."

"Decent?" Lucile exploded. "It--it was grand. Look here," she turned
almost savagely upon the child, "you didn't intend to give that book back
but you're going to do it. You're going to put it in that mail box
to-night."

"Oh, no, I'm not," the child said cheerfully.

"You--you're not?" Lucile stammered. "What right have you to keep it?"

"What right has he? It does not belong to him. It belongs to Monsieur Le
Bon."

"Why, that's nonsense! That--" Lucile broke off suddenly. "Look!" she
exclaimed. "The boat's gone!"

It was all too true. They had reached the beach where they had left the
boat. It had vanished.

"So we are prisoners after all," Florence whispered.

"And, and he was just making fun of us. He knew we couldn't get away,"
breathed Lucile, sinking hopelessly down upon the sand.

CHAPTER XVII
A BATTLE IN THE NIGHT

"Oh, brace up!" exclaimed Florence, a note of impatience creeping into
her voice. "We'll get out of this place some way. Perhaps the boat wasn't
taken. Perhaps it has--"

She stopped to stare away across the water.

"I believe it's out there away down the beach. Look, Lucile. Look sharp."

The moon had gone behind a small cloud. As it came out they could see
clearly the dark bulk of the boat dancing on the water, which was by now
roughening up before the rising storm.

"It's out there," exclaimed Florence. "We failed to pull it ashore far
enough. There is a side sweep to the waves that carried it out. We must
get it."

"Yes, oh, yes, we must!" the child exclaimed. "It wasn't mine; it was
borrowed."

"You borrow a lot of things," exclaimed Florence.

"Oh, no, indeed. Not many, not hardly any at all."

"But, Florence, how can we get it?" protested Lucile.

"I'm a strong swimmer. I swam a mile once. The boat's out only a few
hundred yards. It will be easy."

"Not with your clothes on."

Florence did not answer. She threw a glance toward the millionaire's
cottage. All was dark there.

"Here!" Lucile felt a garment thrust into her hands, then another and
another.

"Florence, you mustn't."

"It's the only way."

A moment later Florence's white body gleamed in the moonlight as she
raced away down the beach to gain the point nearest the boat.

To the listening ears of Lucile and the child there came the sound of a
splash, then the slow plash, plash, plash of a swimmer's strokes.
Florence was away and swimming strong. But the wind from off a point had
caught the boat and was carrying it out from shore, driving it on faster
than she knew.

Confident of her ability to reach the goal in a mere breath of time, she
struck out at once with the splendid swing of the Australian crawl.
Trained to the pink of perfection, her every muscle in condition, she
laughed at the wavelets that lifted her up only to drop her down again
and now and again to dash a saucy handful of spray in her face. She
laughed and even hummed a snatch of an old sea song. She was as much at
home in the water as in her room at the university.

But now, as she got farther from the shore, the waves grew in size and
force. They impeded her progress. The shore was protected by a rocky
point farther up the beach. She was rapidly leaving that protection.

Throwing herself high out of the water, she looked for the boat. A little
cry of consternation escaped her lips. She had expected to find it close
at hand. It seemed as far away as when she had first seen it.

"It's the wind off the point," she breathed. "It's taking it out to sea.
It--it's going to be a battle, a real scrap."

Once more she struck out with the powerful stroke which carries one far
but draws heavily upon his emergency fund of energy.

For three full moments she battled the waves; then, all but breathless,
she slipped over on her back to do the dead man's float.

"Just for a few seconds. Got to save my strength, but I can't waste
time."

Now for the first time she realized that there was a possibility that she
would lose this fight. The realization of what it meant if she did lose,
swept over her and left her cold and numb. To go back was impossible; the
wind and waves were too strong for that. To fail to reach the boat meant
death.

Turning back again into swimming position, she struck out once more. But
this time it was not the crawl. That cost too much. With an easy,
hand-over-hand swing which taxed the reserve forces little more than
floating, she set her teeth hard, resolved slowly but surely to win her
way to the boat and to safety.

Moments passed. Long, agonizing moments.

Lucile on the shore, by the gleam of a flare of lightning, caught now and
then a glimpse of the swimmer. Little by little she became conscious of
the real situation. When it dawned upon her that Florence was in real
peril, she thought of rushing to the cottage and calling to her
assistance any who might be there. Then she looked at the bundle of
clothing in her arms and flushed.

"She'd never forgive me," she whispered.

Florence, still battling, felt the spray break over her, but still kept
on the even swing. Now and again, high on the crest of a wave, she saw
the boat. She was cheered by the fact that each time it appeared to loom
a little larger.

"Gaining," she whispered. "Fifty yards to go!"

Again moments passed and again she whispered, "Gaining. Thirty yards."

A third time she whispered, "Twenty yards."

After that it was a quiet, muscle-straining, heart-breaking, silent
battle, which caused her very senses to reel. Indeed at times she
appeared conscious of only one thing, the mechanical swing of her arms,
the kick, kick of her feet. They seemed but mechanical attachments run by
some electrical power.

When at last the boat loomed black and large on the crest of a wave just
above her she had barely enough brain energy left to order her arms into
a new motion.

Striking upward with her right hand, she gripped the craft's side. The
next instant, with a superhuman effort, without overturning it she threw
herself into the boat, there to fall panting across a seat.

"Wha--what a battle!" she gasped. "But I won! I won!"

For two minutes she lay there motionless. Then, drawing herself stiffly
up to a sitting position, she adjusted the oars to their oarlocks and,
bending forward, threw all her magnificent strength into the business of
battling the waves and bringing the boat safely ashore.

There are few crafts more capable of riding a stormy sea than is a
clinker-built rowboat. Light as a cork, it rides the waves like a
seagull. Florence was not long in finding this out. Her trip ashore was
one of joyous triumph. She had fought a hard physical battle and won.
This was her hour of triumph. Her lips thrilled a "Hi-le-hi-le-hi-lo"
which was heard with delight by her friends on land. Her bare arms worked
like twin levers to a powerful engine, as she brought the boat around and
shot it toward shore.

A moment for rejoicing, two for dressing, then they all three tumbled
into the boat to make the tossing trip round the wall to shore on the
other side.

For the moment the book tightly pressed under the child's arm was
forgotten. Florence talked of swimming and rowing. She talked of plans
for a possible summer's outing which included days upon the water and
weeks within the forest primeval.

As they left the boat on the beach, they could see that the storm was
passing to the north of them. It had, however, hidden the moon. The path
through the forest and across the river was engulfed in darkness.

Once more the child prattled of haunts, spooks, and goblins, but for once
Lucile's nerves were not disturbed. Her mind had gone back to the old
problems, the mystery of the gargoyle and all the knotty questions which
had come to be associated with it.

This night a new mystery had thrust its head up out of the dark and an
old theory had been exploded. She had thought that the young
millionaire's son might be in league with the old man and the child in
carrying away and disposing of old and valuable books, but here was the
child coming out to this all but deserted cottage at night to take a book
from the young man's library.

"He hasn't a thing in the world to do with it," she told herself. "He--"

She paused in her perplexing problem to grip her companion's arm and
whisper, "What was that?"

They were nearing the plank bridge. She felt certain that she heard a
footstep upon it. But now as she listened she heard nothing but the
onrush of distant waters.

"Just your nerves," answered Florence.

"It was not. I was not thinking of the child's foolish chatter. I was
thinking of our problem, of the gargoyle's secret. Someone is crossing
the bridge."

Even as she spoke, as if in proof of her declaration, there came a faint
pat-pat-pat, as of someone moving on the bridge on tiptoe.

"Someone is shadowing us," Lucile whispered.

"Looks that way."

"Who is it?"

"Someone from the cottage perhaps. Watching to see what the child does
with the book. She must take it back."

"Yes, she must."

"It might be," and here even stout-hearted Florence shuddered, "it might
be that someone had shadowed us all the way from the city."

"The one who followed me the night I got caught in that wretched woman's
house, and other times?"

"Yes."

"But he couldn't have gone all the way, not up to the cottage. He
couldn't get through the fence and there was no other boat."

"Well, anyway, whoever it is, we must go on. Won't do any good standing
here shivering."

Once more they pressed into the dark and once more Lucile resumed her
attempt to disentangle the many problems which lay before her.

CHAPTER XVIII
FRANK MORROW JOINS IN THE HUNT

That she had reached the limit of her resources, her power to reason and
to endure, Lucile knew right well. To go on as she had been day after
day, each day adding some new responsibility to her already overburdened
shoulders, was to invite disaster. It was not fair to others. The set of
Shakespeare, the volume of Portland charts, the hand-bound volume from
the bindery and this book just taken from the summer home of the
millionaire, were all for the moment in the hands of the old man and the
child. How long would they remain there? No one could tell save the old
man and perhaps the child.

That she had had no part whatever in the taking of any of them, unless
her 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 the
beginning," she chided herself. "Then there would have been no other
problems. All the other books would be at this moment in their proper
places and the old man and child would be--"

She could not say the words, "in jail." It was too terrible to
contemplate! That man and that child in jail! And, yet, she suddenly
remembered the child's declaration that she would not return the book to
the 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 the
mystery room talking to the old man. Perhaps, after all, he had borrowed
the book and the child had been sent for it. There was some consolation
in 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 up
to the cottage by night by way of the water. And why did he assume that
she was borrowing it?"

And so, after all her speculation, she found herself just where she had
left off; the tangle was no less a tangle than before.

"Question is," she whispered to herself, "am I going to go to the police
or to the university authorities with the story and have these mysterious
people arrested, or am I not?"

They reached the station just as the last train was pulling in. Florence
and the child had climbed aboard and Lucile had her hand on the rail when
she saw a skulking figure emerge from the shadows of the station. The
person, whoever he might be, darted down the track to climb upon the back
platform just as the train pulled out.

"That," Lucile told herself, "is the person who crossed the bridge ahead
of us. He is spying on us. I wonder who he is and what he knows." A cold
chill 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 that
they go back and see who the man was.

"What's the use?" said Lucile. "We can't prove that he's following us. It
would only get us into another mess and goodness knows we're in enough
now."

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 rattled
back 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 the
supposedly valuable book.

They saw nothing more of the mysterious person who had apparently been
following them. Arrived at the city, they were confronted with the
problem of the immediate possession of the latest of the strangely
acquired volumes. Should the child be allowed to carry it to the
mysterious cottage or should they insist on taking it to their room for
safe keeping? They talked the matter over in whispers just before
arriving at their station.

"If you attempt to make her give it up," Florence whispered, "she'll make
a 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 at
that cottage, and, really, it's not as much our business as you keep
thinking 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 musty
old books in Christendom. Let's forget at least this one and let that
rich young man get it back as best he can. He took the chance in allowing
her to take it away."

Lucile did not entirely agree to all this but was too tired to resist her
companion's logic, so the book went away under the child's arm.

After a very few hours of restless sleep, Lucile awoke with one resolve
firmly implanted in her mind: She would take Frank Morrow's book back to
him and place it in his hand, then she would tell him the part of the
story that he did not already know. After that she would attempt to
follow 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 up
for the day. No customers were yet about. Having done his nine holes of
golf before coming down and having done them exceedingly well, he was
feeling in a particularly good humor.

"Well, my young friend," he smiled, "what is it I may do for you this
morning? Why! Why!" he exclaimed, turning her suddenly about to the
light, "you've been losing sleep about something. Tut! Tut! That will
never do."

She smiled in spite of herself. Here was a young-old man who was truly a
dear. "Why I came," she smiled again, as she drew the valuable book from
her pocket, "to return your book and to tell you just how I came to have
it."

"That sounds interesting." Frank Morrow, rubbing his hands together as
one 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 his
chair 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's
costing me two hundred dollars, but I don't begrudge it, not a penny of
it. The yarn's really worth it. Besides, I shall make a cool hundred on
the 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 is
closed and the book returned, I shall pay it to you, of course."

"Oh, the reward," she said slowly. "Yes, of course. But, really, the
mystery is not ended--it has only just begun."

"As you like it," the shopkeeper smiled back. "As matters go, I should
call the matter closed. I have a book stolen. You recover it and are able
to tell me that the persons who stole it are an old man, too feeble to
work, and an innocent child. You are able to put your finger on them and
to say, 'These are the persons.' I can have them arrested if I choose. I
too am an old man; not so old as your Frenchman, yet old enough to know
something of what he must feel, with the pinch of age and poverty
dragging at the tail of his coat. I happen to love all little children
and to feel their suffering quite as much as they do when they must
suffer. I do not choose to have those two people arrested. That ends the
affair, does it not? You have your reward; I my book; they go free, not
because justice says they should but because a soft heart of an old man
says they must." He smiled and brushed his eyes with the back of his
hands.

Having nothing to say, Lucile sat there in silence.

Presently Frank Morrow began, "You think this is unusual because you do
not know how common it is. You have never run a bookstore. You would
perhaps be a little surprised to have me tell you that almost every day
of the year some book, more or less valuable, is stolen, either from a
library or from a bookshop. It is done, I suppose, because it seems so
very easy. Here is a little volume worth, we will say, ten dollars. It
will slip easily into your pocket. When the shopkeeper is not looking, it
does slip in. Then again, when he is not paying any particular attention
to you, you slip out upon the street. You drink in a few breaths of fresh
air, cast a glance to right and left of you, then walk away. You think
the matter is closed. In reality it has just begun.

"In the first place, you probably did not take the book so you might have
it for your library. Collectors of rare books are seldom thieves. They
are often cranks, but honest cranks. More books are stolen by students
than by any other class of people. They have a better knowledge of the
value of books than the average run of folks, and they more often need
the money to be obtained from the sale of such books.

"Nothing seems easier than to take a book from one store, to carry it to
another store six or eight miles away and sell it, then to wash your
hands of the whole matter. Nothing in reality is harder. All the
bookstore keepers of every large city are bound together in a loosely
organized society for mutual protection. The workings of their
'underground railways' are swifter and more certain than the United
States Secret Service. The instant I discover that one of my books has
been carried off, I sit down and put the name of it on a multigraph. This
prints the name on enough post cards to go to all the secondhand
bookshops in the city. When the shopkeepers get these cards, they read
the name and know the book has been stolen. If they have already bought
it, they start a search for the person who sold it to them. They
generally locate him. If the book has not yet been disposed of, every
shopkeeper is constantly on the lookout for it until it turns up. So," he
smiled, "you see how easy it is to steal books.

"And yet they will steal them," he went on. "Why," he smiled
reminiscently, "not so long ago I had the same book stolen twice within
the 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 an
out and out rascal; he wanted the money for needless luxuries. We treated
him rough. Very rough! The other was a sick student who, we found, had
used the money to pay carfare to his home. I did not even trouble to find
out where his home was; just paid the ten dollars to the man who had
purchased the book from him and charged it off on my books. That," he
stroked his chin thoughtfully, "that doesn't seem like common sense--or
justice, 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 still
exists. Why does Monsieur Le Bon want the books? He has not sold a single
volume. Something must be done about the books from the university, the
Scientific Library and the Bindery."

"That's true," said Frank Morrow thoughtfully. "There are angles to the
case that are interesting, very interesting. Mind if I smoke?"

Lucile shook her head.

"Thanks." He filled and lighted his pipe. "Mind going over the whole
story again?"

"No, not a bit."

She began at the beginning and told her story. This time he interrupted
her often and it seemed that, as he asked question after question, his
interest grew as the story progressed.

"Now I'll tell you what to do," he held up a finger for emphasis as she
concluded. He leaned far forward and there was a light of adventure in
his eye. "I'll tell you what you do. Here's a hundred dollars." He drew a
roll of bills from his pocket. "You take this money and buy yourself a
ticket to New York. You can spare the week-end at least. When you get to
New York, go to Burtnoe's Book Store and ask for Roderick Vining. He sold
me that copy of 'The Compleat Angler.' I sent out a bid for such a book
when I had a customer for it and he was one of two who responded. His
book was the best of the two, so I took it. He is in charge of fine
binding 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 him
that I want to know where he got the book; take the book along, to show
you are the real goods. When he tells you where, then find that person if
you can and ask him the same question. Keep going until you discover
something. You may have to hunt up a half dozen former owners but sooner
or later you will come to an end, to the place where that book crossed
the 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 a
moment's silence. "It will be an interesting hunt and may even be a
trifle dangerous, though I think not."

"But this money, this hundred dollars?" Lucile hesitated, fingering the
bills.

"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 whatever
you like.

"But," he called after her, as she left the shop, "be sure to keep your
fingers tight closed around the little book."

This, Lucile was destined to discover, was not so easily done.

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 the
roll of the Century Limited. She found herself puzzled at the unexpected
turn of events. She had never visited New York and she welcomed the
opportunity. There was more to be learned by such a visit, brief though
it was bound to be, than in a whole month of poring over books. But why
was she going? What did Frank Morrow hope to prove by any discoveries she
might make regarding the former ownership of the book she carried in her
pocket?

She had never doubted but that the aged Frenchman when badly in need of
funds had sold the book to some American. That he should have repented of
the transaction and had wished the book back in his library, seemed
natural enough. Lacking funds to purchase it back, he had found another
way. That the ends justified the means Lucile very much doubted, yet
there was something to be said for this old man because of his extreme
age. It might be that he had reached the period of his second childhood
and all things appeared to belong to him.

"But here," she told herself, rising to a sitting posture and trying to
stare out into the fleeing darkness, "here we suddenly discover that the
book came from New York. What is one to make of that? Very simple, in a
way, I suppose. This aged Frenchman enters America by way of New York. He
needs 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 that
would be Frank Morrow's solution of the problem. Surely he would not
sacrifice a hundred dollars to send me to New York merely to find out who
the man was to whom the old Frenchman had sold the book. He must think
there is more to it than that--and perhaps there is. Ho, well," she
sighed, 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 that
is a grand and glorious privilege."

The next moment the swing of the Century Limited as it click-clicked over
the rails and the onward rush of scenery meant nothing to her. She was
fast asleep.

Morning found her much refreshed. After a half hour in the washroom and
another in the diner, over coffee and toast, she felt equal to the facing
of any events which might chance to cross her path that day. There are
days in all our lives that are but blanks. They pass and we forget them
forever. There are other days that are so pressed full and running over
with 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 be
such a day in the life of Lucile.

Precisely at nine o'clock she was at the door of Burtnoe's Book Store. To
save time she had taken a taxi. The clerk who unfastened the door looked
at her curiously. When she asked for Roderick Vining, she was directed by
a nod to the back corner of the room.

She made her way into a square alcove where an electric light shining
brightly from the ceiling brought out a gleam of real gold from the backs
of thousands of books done in fine bindings.

Bending over a desk telephone was the form of a tall, slender-shouldered
man.

"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 for
silence. Someone was speaking at the other end of the wire.

With burning cheeks and a whispered apology, the girl sank back into the
shadows. Her courage faltered. This was her introduction to New York; she
had made a faux pas as her first move; and this man, Roderick Vining, was
no 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. He
impressed her, seated though he was, as one who was habitually in a
hurry. Pressing matters were, without doubt, constantly upon his mind.

Now he was speaking. She could not avoid hearing what he was saying
without 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. Of
course you understand that is a very special, de luxe edition; only three
hundred sets struck off, then the plates destroyed. The cost would be
considerable."

Again he pressed the receiver to his ear.

"Why, I should say, three thousand dollars; not less, certainly. All
right, 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 been
padded, then turned to Lucile. "Pardon me; you wanted to see me? Sorry to
keep you waiting."

"Frank Morrow sent me here to ask you where you purchased this book." She
held the thin volume out for his inspection.

He did not appear to look at it at all. Instead, he looked her squarely
in the eye. "Frank Morrow sent you all the way from Chicago that you
might ask me that question? How extraordinary! Why did he not wire me? He
knows 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 person
where he got it, but thinking better of it said instead, "That is only
part of my mission to New York. Won't you please look at the book and
answer 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 Compleat
Angler' 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; one
bookshop selling a book to another. There was more to it. She must follow
on.

"I suppose," he smiled, as if reading her thoughts, "that you'd like me
to tell you where Dan got it, but that I cannot answer. You must ask him
yourself. His address is 45 Walton place. It is ten minutes' walk from
here; three blocks to your right as you leave our door, then two to your
left, a block and a half to your left again and you are there. The sign's
easy to read--just 'Dan Whitner, Books.' Dan's a prince of a chap. He'll
do anything for a girl like you; would for anyone, for that matter. Ever
been to New York before?" he asked suddenly.

"No."

"Come alone?"

"Yes."

He whistled softly to himself, "You western girls will be the death of
us."

"When there's some place that needs to be gone to we go to it," she
smiled half defiantly. "There's nothing so terrible about that, is
there?"

"No, I suppose not," he admitted. "Well, you go see Dan. He'll tell you
anything 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 when
you did not see it?" she said.

"I did see it," he smiled, as if amused. "I didn't see it when you
expected me to see it, that was all. I saw it long before--saw it when I
was at the phone. It's a habit we book folks have of doing one thing with
our ears and another with our eyes. We have to or we'd never get through
in a day if we didn't. Your little book protruded from your pocket. I
knew 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. Hope
your 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 room
without further comment.

CHAPTER XX
"THAT WAS THE MAN"

Dan Whitner was a somewhat shabby likeness of Roderick Vining; that is,
he was a gray-haired, stoop-shouldered, young-old man who knew a great
deal about books. His shelves were dusty, so too was a mouse-colored
jacket.

Yes, he "remembered the book quite well." Lucile began to get the notion
that once one of these book wizards set eyes upon an ancient volume he
never forgot it.

"Strange case, that," smiled Dan as he looked at her over his glasses.

"Ah! Here is where I learn something of real importance," was the girl's
mental comment.

"You see," Dan went on, "I sometimes have dinner with a very good friend
who also loves books--the Reverend Dr. Edward Edwards. Dinner, on such
occasions, is served on a tea-wagon in his library; sort of makes a
fellow feel at home, don't you know?

"Well, one of these evenings when the good doctor had an exceptional
roast of mutton and a hubbard squash just in from the farm and a wee bit
of something beside, he had me over. While we waited to be served I was
glancing over his books and chanced to note the book you now have in your
hand. 'I see,' I said to him jokingly, 'that you have come into a
legacy.'

"'Why, no,' he says looking up surprised. 'Why should you think that?'

"I pointed to this little copy of 'The Compleat Angler' and said, 'Only
them as are very rich can afford to possess such as this one.'

"He looked at me in surprise, then smiled as he said, 'I did pay a little
too much for it, I guess, but the print was rather unusual; besides, it's
a great book. I don't mind admitting that it cost me fifteen dollars.'

"'Fifteen dollars!' I exploded.

"'Got trimmed, did I?' he smiled back. 'Well, you know the old saying
about the clergy, no business heads on them, so we'll let it stand at
that.'

"'Trimmed nothing!' I fairly yelled. 'The book's a small fortune in
itself; one of those rare finds. Why--I'd venture to risk six hundred
dollars on it myself without opening the covers of it. It's a first
edition or I'm not a book seller at all.'

"'Sold!' he cried in high glee. 'There are three families in my parish
who are in dire need. This book was sent, no doubt, to assist me in
tiding them over.'

"So that's how I came into possession of the book. I sold it to Vining at
Burtnoe's, as you no doubt know."

"But," exclaimed Lucile breathlessly, feeling that the scent was growing
fresher all the while, "from whom did the doctor purchase it at so
ridiculous a price?"

"From a fool bookstorekeeper of course; one of those upstarts who know
nothing at all about books; who handle them as pure merchandise,
purchased at so much and sold for forty and five per cent more,
regardless of actual value. He'd bought it to help out some ignorant
foreigner, a Spaniard I believe. He'd paid ten dollars and had been
terribly pleased within himself when he made five on the deal."

"Who was he?" Lucile asked eagerly, "and where was his shop?"

"That I didn't trouble to find out. Very likely he's out of business by
now. Such shops are like grass in autumn, soon die down and the snow
covers them up. The doctor could tell you though. I'll give you his
address and you may go and ask him."

The short afternoon was near spent and the shades of night were already
falling when at last Lucile entered the shop of the unfortunate
bookseller who had not realized the value of the little book. Lunch had
delayed her, then the doctor had been out making calls and had kept her
waiting for two hours. The little shop had been hard to find, but here at
last she was.

A pitiful shop it was, possessing but a few hundred volumes and presided
over by a grimy-fingered man who might but the day before have been
promoted from the garbage wagon so far as personal appearance was
concerned. Indeed, as Lucile looked over the place she was seized with
the crazy notion that the whole place, books, shelves and proprietor, had
but recently climbed down from the junk cart.

"And yet," she told herself, "it was from this very heap of dusty paper
and cardboard that this precious bit of literature which I have in my
pocket, was salvaged. I must not forget that.

"I believe," she told herself with an excited intake of breath, "that I
am coming close to the end of my search. All day I have been descending
step by step; first the wonderful Burtnoe's Book Store with all its
magnificence and its genius of a bookman, then Dan Whitner and the
doctor, now this place, and then perhaps, whoever the person is who sold
the book to this pitiful specimen of a bookseller."

Her heart skipped a beat as the bookman, having caught sight of her,
began to amble in her direction.

She made her question short and to the point. "Where did you get this
book?"

"That book?" he took it and turned it over in his hand. He scratched his
head. "That, why that book must have been one I bought with a lot at an
auction sale last week. Want'a buy it?"

"No. No!" exclaimed Lucile, seizing the book. "It's not your book. It is
mine but you had it once and sold it. What I wish to know is, where did
you get it?"

Three customers were thumbing through the books. One seated at a table
turned and looked up. His face impressed the girl at once as being
particularly horrible. Dark featured, hook-nosed, with a blue birthmark
covering half his chin, he inspired her with an almost uncontrollable
fear.

"We--we--" she faltered "--may we not step back under the light where you
can see the book better?"

The shopkeeper followed her in stolid silence.

It was necessary for her to tell him the whole story of the purchase and
sale of the book before he recognized it as having once been on his
shelves.

"Oh, yes," he exclaimed at last. "Made five dollars on her. Thought I had
made a mistake, but didn't; not that time I didn't. Where'd I get her?
Let's see?"

As he stood there attempting to recall the name of the purchaser,
Lucile's gaze strayed to an opening between two rows of books. Instantly
her eyes were caught as a bird's by a serpent, as she found herself
looking into a pair of cruel, crafty, prying eyes. They vanished
instantly but left her with a cold chill running up her spine. It was the
man who had been seated at the table, but why had he been spying? She had
not long to wait before a possible solution was given her.

"I know!" exclaimed the shopkeeper at this instant, "I bought it from a
foreigner. Bought two others from him, too. Made good money on 'em all,
too. Why!" he exclaimed suddenly, "he was in here when you came. Had
another book under his arm, he did; wanted to sell it, I judge. I was
just keeping him waiting a little so's he wouldn't think I wanted it too
bad. If they think you want their books bad they stick for a big price."
His voice had dropped to a whisper; his eyes had narrowed to what was
meant to be a very wise-meaning expression.

"May be here yet." He darted around the stand of books.

"That's him just going out the door. Hey, you!" he shouted after the man.

Paying not the least attention, the person passed out, slamming the door
after him.

Passing rapidly down the room, the proprietor poked his head out of the
door and shouted twice. After listening for a moment he backed into the
room and shut the door.

"Gone," he muttered. "Worse luck to me. Sometimes we wait too long and
sometimes not long enough. Now some other lucky dog will get that book."

In the meantime Lucile had glanced about the shop. Two persons were
reading beneath a lamp in the corner. Neither was the man with the
birthmark. It was natural enough to conclude that it was he who had left
the room.

"Did he have a birthmark on his chin, this man you bought the book from?"
she asked as the proprietor returned.

"Yes, ma'am, he did."

"Then I saw him here a moment ago. When is he likely to return?"

"That no one can tell. Perhaps to-morrow, perhaps never. He has not been
here before in three months. Did you wish to speak with him?"

Lucile shivered. "Well, perhaps not," she half whispered.

"Huh!" grunted the proprietor suddenly, "what's this? Must be the book he
brought. He's forgotten it. Now he is sure to be back."

Lucile was rather of the opinion that he would not soon return. She
believed that there had been some trickery about the affair of these
valuable books which were being sold to the cheapest book dealer in the
city for a very small part of their value. "Perhaps they were stolen,"
she told herself. At once the strangeness of the situation came to her;
here she was with a book in her possession which had been but recently
stolen from Frank Morrow's book shop by a girl and now circumstances
seemed to indicate that this very book had been stolen by some person who
had sold it to this bookmonger, who had passed it on to the doctor who
had sold it to Dan Whitner, who had sold it to Roderick Vining, who had
sold it to Frank Morrow.

"Sounds like the house that Jack built," she whispered to herself. "But
then I suppose some valuable books have been stolen many times. Frank
Morrow said one of his had been stolen twice within a week by totally
different persons."

Turning to the shopkeeper, she asked if she might see the book that had
been left behind.

As she turned back the cover a low exclamation escaped her lips. In the
corner of that cover was the same secret mark as had been in all the
mystery books, the gargoyle and the letter L.

Hiding her surprise as best she could, she handed the book to the man
with the remark:

"Of course you cannot sell the book, since it is not your own?"

"I'd chance it."

"I'll give you ten dollars for it. If he returns and demands more, I will
either pay the price or return the book. I'll give you my address."

"Done!" he exclaimed. "I don't think you'll ever hear from me. I'll give
him seven and he'll be glad enough to get it. Pretty good, eh?" he rubbed
his hands together gleefully. "Three dollars clean profit and not a cent
invested any of the time."

Like the ancient volume on fishing, this newly acquired book was small
and thin, so without examining its contents she thrust it beside the
other in the large pocket of her coat.

"I suppose I oughtn't to have done it," she whispered to herself as she
left the shop, "but if I hadn't, he'd have sold it to the first customer.
It's evidence in the case and besides it may be valuable."

A fog hung over the city. The streets were dark and damp. Here and there
a yellow light struggled to pierce the denseness of the gloom. As she
turned to the right and walked down the street, not knowing for the
moment quite what else to do, she fancied that a shadow darted down the
alley to her left.

"Too dark to tell. Might have been a dog or anything," she murmured. Yet
she shivered and quickened her pace. She was in a great, dark city alone
and she was going--where? That she did not know. The day's adventures had
left her high and dry on the streets of a city as a boat is left by the
tide on the sand.

CHAPTER XXI
A THEFT IN THE NIGHT

There is no feeling of desolation so complete as that which sweeps over
one who is utterly alone in a great city at night. The desert, the Arctic
wilderness, the heart of the forest, the boundless sea, all these have
their terrors, but for downright desolation give me the heart of a
strange city at night.

Hardly had Lucile covered two blocks on her journey from the book shop
when this feeling of utter loneliness engulfed her like a bank of fog.
Shuddering, she paused to consider, and, as she did so, fancied she
caught the bulk of a shadow disappearing into a doorway to the right of
her.

"Where am I and where am I to go?" she asked herself in a wild attempt to
gather her scattered senses. In vain she endeavored to recall the name of
the street she was on at that moment. Her efforts to recall the route she
had taken in getting there were quite as futile.

"Wish I were in Chicago," she breathed. "The very worst of it is better
than this. There at least I have friends somewhere. Here I have none
anywhere. Wish Florence were here."

At that she caught herself up; there was no use in wishing for things
that could not be. The question was, what did she intend to do? Was she
to seek out a hotel and spend the night there, to resume her search for
the first person in America who had sold the ancient copy of the Angler,
or was she to take the first train back to Chicago? She had a feeling
that she had seen the man she sought and that weeks of search might not
reveal him again; yet she disliked going back to Frank Morrow with so
little to show for his hundred dollars invested.

"Anyway," she said at last with a shudder, "I've got to get out of here.
Boo! it seems like the very depths of the slums!"

She started on at a brisk pace. Having gone a half block she faced about
suddenly; she fancied she heard footsteps behind her. She saw nothing but
an empty street.

"Nerves," she told herself. "I've got to get over that. I know what's the
matter with me though; I haven't eaten for hours. I'll find a restaurant
pretty soon and get a cup of coffee."

There is a strange thing about our great cities; in certain sections you
may pass a half dozen coffee shops and at least three policemen in a
single block; in other sections you may go an entire mile without seeing
either. Evidently, eating places, like policemen, crave company of their
own kind. Lucile had happened upon a policeless and eat-shopless section
of New York. For a full twenty minutes she tramped on through the fog,
growing more and more certain at every step that she was being followed
by someone, and not coming upon a single person or shop that offered her
either food or protection.

Suddenly she found herself in the midst of a throng of people. A movie
theater had disgorged this throng. Like a sudden flood of water, they
surrounded her and bore her on. They poured down the street to break up
into two smaller streams, one of which flowed on down the street and the
other into a hole in the ground. Having been caught in the latter stream,
and not knowing what else to do, eager for companionship of whatever
sort, the girl allowed herself to be borne along and down into the hole.
Down a steep flight of steps she was half carried, to be at last
deposited on a platform, alongside of which in due time a train of
electric cars came rattling in.

"The subway," she breathed. "It will take me anywhere, providing I know
where I want to go."

Just as she was beginning to experience a sense of relief from contact
with this flowing mass of humanity she was given a sudden shock. To the
right of her, through a narrow gap in the throng, she recognized a face.
The gap closed up at once and the face disappeared, but the image of it
remained. It was the face of the man she had seen in the shop, he of the
birthmark on his chin.

"No doubt of it now," she said half aloud. "He _is_ following me." Then,
like some hunted creature of the wild, she began looking about her for a
way of escape. Before her there whizzed a train. The moving cars came to
a halt. A door slid open. She leaped within. The next instant the door
closed and she was borne away. To what place? She could not tell. All she
knew was that she was on her way.

Quite confident that she had evaded her pursuer, she settled back in her
seat to fall into a drowsy stupor. How far she rode she could not tell.
Having at last been roused to action by the pangs of hunger, she rose and
left the car. "Only hope there is some place to eat near," she sighed.

Again she found herself lost in a jam; the legitimate theaters were
disgorging their crowds. She was at this time, though she did not know
it, in the down town district.

Her right hand was disengaged; in her left she carried a small leather
bag. As she struggled through the throng, she experienced difficulty in
retaining her hold on this bag. Of a sudden she felt a mighty wrench on
its handle and the next instant it was gone. There could be no mistaking
that sudden pull. It had been torn from her grasp by a vandal of some
sort. As she turned with a gasp, she caught sight of a face that vanished
instantly, the face of the man with the birthmark on his chin.

Instantly the whole situation flashed through her mind; this man had been
following her to regain possession of one or both of the books which at
this moment reposed in her coat pocket. He had made the mistake of
thinking these books were in the bag. He would search the bag and then--

She reasoned no further; a car door was about to close. She dashed
through it at imminent risk of being caught in the crush of its swing and
the next instant the car whirled away.

"Missed him that time," she breathed. "He will search the bag. When he
discovers his mistake it will be too late. The bird has flown. As to the
bag, he may keep it. It contains only a bit of a pink garment which I can
afford to do without, and two clean handkerchiefs."

Fifteen minutes later when she left the car she found herself in a very
much calmer state of mind. Convinced that she had shaken herself free
from her undesirable shadow, and fully convinced also that nothing now
remained but to eat a belated supper and board the next train for her
home city, she went about the business of finding out what that next
train might be and from what depot it left.

Fortunately, a near-by hotel office was able to furnish her the
information needed and to call a taxi. A half hour later she found
herself enjoying a hot lunch in the depot and at the same time mentally
reveling in the soft comfort of "Lower 7" of car 36, which she was soon
to occupy.

CHAPTER XXII
MANY MYSTERIES

One might have supposed that, considering she was now late into the night
of the most exacting and exciting day of her whole life, Lucile, once she
was safely stowed away in her berth on the train, would immediately fall
asleep. This, however, was not the case. Her active brain was still at
work, still struggling to untangle the many mysteries that, during the
past weeks, had woven themselves into what seemed an inseparable tangle.
So, after a half hour of vain attempt to sleep, she sat bolt upright in
her berth and snapped on the light, prepared if need be to spend the few
remaining hours of that night satisfying the demands of that
irreconcilable mind of hers.

The train had already started. The heavy green curtains which hid her
from the little outside world about her waved gently to and fro. Her
white arms and shoulders gleamed in the light. Her hair hung tumbled in a
mass about her. As the train took a curve, she was swung against the
hammock in which her heavy coat rested. Her bare shoulder touched
something hard.

"The books," she said. "Wonder what my new acquirement is like?"

She drew the new book from her pocket and, brushing her hair out of her
eyes, scanned it curiously.

"French," she whispered. "Very old French and hard to read." As she
thumbed the pages she saw quaint woodcuts of soldiers and officers. Here
was a single officer seated impressively upon a horse; here a group of
soldiers scanning the horizon; and there a whole battalion charging a
very ancient fieldpiece.

"Something about war," she told herself. "That's about all I can make
out." She was ready to close the book when her eye was caught by an
inscription written upon the fly leaf.

"Looks sort of distinguished," she told herself. "Shouldn't wonder if the
book were valuable because of that writing if for nothing else." In this
surmise she was more right than she knew.

She put the book carefully away but was unable to banish the questions
which the sight of it had brought up. Automatically her mind went over
the incidents which had led up to this precise moment. She saw the child
in the university library, saw her take down the book and flee, saw her
later in the mystery cottage on Tyler street. She fought again the battle
with the hardened foster mother of the child and again endured the
torturing moments in that evil woman's abode. She thought of the
mysterious person who had followed her and had saved her from unknown
terrors by notifying the police. Had that person been the same as he who
had followed her this very night in an attempt to regain possession of
the two books? No, surely not. She could not conceive of his doing her an
act of kindness. She thought of the person who had followed them to the
wall of the summer cottage out at the dunes and wondered vaguely if he
could have been the same person who had followed them on Tyler street at
one time and at that other saved her from the clutches of the child's
foster parents. She wondered who he could be. Was he a detective who had
been set to dog her trail or was he some friend? The latter seemed
impossible. If he was a detective, how had she escaped him on this trip?
Or, after all, had she? It gave her a little thrill to think that perhaps
in the excitement of the day his presence near her had not been noticed
and that he might at this very moment be traveling with her in this car.
Involuntarily she seized the green curtains and tried to button them more
tightly, then she threw back her head and laughed at herself.

"But how," she asked herself, "is all this tangle to be straightened out?
Take that one little book, 'The Compleat Angler.' The child apparently
stole it from Frank Morrow; I have it from her by a mere accident; Frank
Morrow has it from one New York book shop; that shop from another; the
other from a theologian; he from a third book shop; and that shop more
than likely from a thief, for if he would attempt to steal it from me
to-night, he more than likely stole it in the first place and was
attempting to get it from me to destroy my evidence against him. Now if
the book was stolen in the first place and all of us have had stolen
property in our possession, in the form of this book, what's going to
happen to the bunch of us and how are we ever to square ourselves? Last
of all," she smiled, "where does our friend, the aged Frenchman, the
godfather of that precious child, come in on it? And what is the meaning
of the secret mark?"

With all these problems stated and none of them solved, she at last found
a drowsy sensation about to overcome her, so settling back upon her
pillow and drawing the blankets about her, she allowed herself to drift
off into slumber.

The train she had taken was not as speedy as the one which had taken her
to New York. Darkness of another day had fallen when at last she
recognized the welcome sound of the train rumbling over hollow spaces at
regular intervals and knew that she was passing over the streets of her
own city. Florence would be there to meet her. Lucile had wired her the
time of her arrival. It certainly would seem good to meet someone she
knew once more.

As the train at last rattled into the heart of the city, she caught an
unusual red glow against the sky.

"Fire somewhere," she told herself without giving it much thought, for in
a city of millions one thinks little of a single blaze.

It was only after she and Florence had left the depot that she noted
again that red glow with a start.

The first indication that something unusual was happening in that section
of the city was the large amount of traffic which passed the street car
they had taken. Automobiles, trucks and delivery cars rattled rapidly
past them.

"That's strange!" she told herself. "The street is usually deserted at
this time of night. I wonder if the fire could be over this way; but
surely it would be out by now."

At last the traffic became so crowded that their car, like a bit of
debris in a clogged stream, was caught and held in the middle of it all.

"What's the trouble?" she asked the conductor.

"Bad fire up ahead, just across the river."

"Across the river? Why--that's where Tyler street is."

"Yes'm, in that direction."

"Come on," she said, seizing Florence by the arm; "the fire's down toward
Tyler street. I think we ought to try to get to the cottage if we can.
What could that child and the old Frenchman do if the fire reached their
cottage? He'd burn rather than leave his books and the child wouldn't
leave him; besides there are the books that belong to other people and
that I'm partly responsible for. C'm'on."

For fifteen minutes they struggled down a street that was thronged with
excited people.

"One wouldn't believe that there could be such a crowd on the streets at
this hour of the night," panted Florence, as she elbowed her way forward.
"Lucile, you hang to my waist. We must not be separated."

They came to a dead stop at last. At the end of the river bridge a rope
had been thrown across the street. At paces of ten feet this rope was
guarded by policemen. None could pass save the firemen.

The fire was across the river but sent forth a red glare that was
startling. By dint of ten minutes of crawling Florence succeeded in
securing for them a position against the rope.

A large fire in a city at night is a grand and terrible spectacle. This
fire was no exception. Indeed, it was destined to become the worst fire
the city had experienced in more than forty years.

Starting in some low, ancient structures that lay along the river, it
soon climbed to a series of brick buildings occupied by garment makers.
The flames, like red dragons' tongues, darted in and out of windows. With
a great burst they leaped through a tar-covered roof to mount hundreds of
feet in air. Burning fragments, all ablaze, leaped to soar away in the
hot currents of air.

The firemen, all but powerless, fought bravely. Here a fire tower reared
itself to dizzy heights in air. Here and there fire hose, like a thousand
entwined serpents, writhed and twisted. Here a whole battery of fire
engines smoked and there two powerful gasoline driven engines kept up a
constant heavy throbbing. Roofs and walls crumbled, water tanks tottered
and fell, steel pillars writhed and twisted in the intense heat, chimneys
came crashing in heaps.

The fire had all but consumed the row of four-story buildings. Then with
a fresh dash of air from the lake it burst forth in earnest, a real and
terrible conflagration.

Lucile, as she stood there watching it, felt a thousand hitherto
unexperienced emotions sweep over her. But at last she came to rest with
one terrible fact bearing down upon her very soul. Tyler street was just
beyond this conflagration. Who could tell when the fire would reach the
mysterious tumble-down cottage with its aged occupant? She thought of
something else, of the books she might long since have returned to their
rightful owners and had not.

"Now they will burn and I will never be able to explain," she told
herself. "Somehow I must get through!"

In her excitement she lifted the rope and started forward. A heavy hand
was instantly laid on her shoulders.

"Y' can't go over there."

"I must."

"Y' can't."

The policeman thrust her gently back behind the rope and drew it down
before her.

"I must go," she told herself. "Oh, I must! I must!"

CHAPTER XXIII
INSIDE THE LINES

"Come on," Lucile said, pulling at Florence's arm. "We've got to get
there. It must be done. For everything that must be done there is always
a way."

They crowded their way back through the throng which was hourly growing
denser. It was distressing to catch the fragments of conversation that
came to them as they fought their way back. Tens of thousands of people
were being robbed of their means of making a living. Each fresh blaze
took the bread from the mouths of hundreds of children.

"T'wasn't much of a job I had," muttered an Irish mother with a shawl
over her head, "but it was bread! Bread!" "Every paper, every record of
my business for the past ten years, was in my files and the office is
doomed," roared a red-faced business man. "It's doomed! And they won't
let me through."

"There's not one of them all that needs to get through more badly than
I," said Lucile, with a lump in her throat. "Surely there must be a way."

Working their way back, the two girls hurried four blocks along Wells
street, which ran parallel to the river, then turned on Madison to fight
their way toward a second bridge.

"Perhaps it is open," Lucile told Florence.

Her hopes were short-lived. Again they faced a rope and a line of
determined-faced policemen.

"It just must be done!" said Lucile, setting her teeth hard as they again
backed away.

An alley offered freer passage than the street. They had passed down this
but a short way when they came upon a ladder truck which had been backed
in as a reserve. On it hung the long rubber coats and heavy black hats of
the firemen.

Instinctively Lucile's hand went out for a coat. She glanced to right and
left. She saw no one. The next instant she had donned that coat and was
drawing a hat down solidly over her hair.

"I know it's an awful thing to do," she whispered, "but I am doing it for
them, not for myself. You may come or stay. It's really my battle. I've
got to see it through to the end. You always advised against going
further but I ventured. Now it's do or die."

Florence's answer was to put out a hand and to grasp a fireman's coat.
The next moment, in this new disguise, they were away.

Had the girls happened to look back just before leaving the alley they
might have surprised a stoop-shouldered, studious-looking man in the act
of doing exactly as they had done, robing himself in fireman's garb.

Dressed as they now were, they found the passing of the line a simple
matter. Scores of fire companies and hundreds of firemen from all parts
of the city had been called upon in this extreme emergency. There was
much confusion. That two firemen should be passing forward to join their
companies did not seem unusual. The coats and hats formed a complete
disguise.

The crossing of the bridge was accomplished on the run. They reached the
other side in the nick of time, for just as they leaped upon the approach
the great cantilevers began to rise. A huge freighter which had been
disgorging its cargo into one of the basements that line the river had
been endangered by the fire. Puffing and snarling, adding its bit of
smoke to the dense, lampblack cloud which hung over the city, a tug was
working the freighter to a place of safety.

"We'll have to stay inside, now we're here," panted Lucile. "There's a
line formed along the other approach. Here's a stair leading down to the
railway tracks. We can follow the tracks for a block, then turn west
again. There'll be no line there; it's too close to the fire."

"Might be dangerous," Florence hung back.

"Can't help it. It's our chance." Lucile was halfway down the stair.
Florence followed and the next moment they were racing along a wall
beside the railway track.

A switch engine racing down the track with a line of box cars, one
ablaze, forced them to flatten themselves against the wall. There was
someone following them, the studious boy in a fireman's uniform. He
barely escaped being run down by the engine, but when it had passed and
they resumed their course, he followed them. Darting from niche to niche,
from shadow to shadow, he kept some distance behind them.

"Up here," panted Lucile, racing upstairs.

The heat was increasing. The climbing of those stairs seemed to double
its intensity. Cinders were falling all about them.

"The wind has shifted," Florence breathed. "It--it's going to be hard."

Lucile did not reply. Her throat was parched. Her face felt as if it were
on fire. The heavy coat and hat were insufferable yet she dared not cast
them away.

So they struggled on. And their shadow, like all true shadows, followed.

"Look! Oh, look!" cried Florence, reeling in her tracks.

A sudden gust of wind had sent the fire swooping against the side of a
magnificent building of concrete and steel. Towering aloft sixteen
stories, it covered a full city block.

"It's going," cried Lucile as she heard the awful crash of glass and saw
flames bursting from the windows as if from the open hearth furnace of a
foundry.

It was true. The magnificent mahogany desks from which great,
high-salaried executives sent out orders to thousands of weary tailors,
made quite as good kindling that night as did some poor widow's
washboard, and they were given quite as much consideration by that bad
master, fire.

"Hurry!" Lucile's voice was hoarse with emotion. "We must get behind it,
out of the path of the wind, or we will be burned to a cinder." Catching
the full force of her meaning, Florence seized Lucile's hand and together
they rushed forward.

Burning cinders rained about them, a half-burned board came swooping down
to fall in their very path. Twice Lucile stumbled and fell, but each time
Florence had her on her feet in an instant.

"Courage! Courage!" she whispered. "Only a few feet more and then the
turn."

After what seemed an age they reached that turn and found themselves in a
place where a breath of night air fanned their cheeks.

Buildings lay between them and the doomed executive building. The firemen
were plying these with water. The great cement structure would be
completely emptied of its contents by the fire but it would stand there
empty-eyed and staring like an Egyptian sphinx.

"It may form a fire-wall which will protect this and the next street,"
said Florence hopefully. "The worst may be over."

CHAPTER XXIV
SECRETS REVEALED

On a night such as this, one does not stand on formalities. There was a
light burning in the mystery cottage on Tyler street. The girls entered
without knocking.

The scene which struck their eyes was most dramatic. On a long, low couch
lay the aged Frenchman. Beside his bed, her hair disheveled, her garments
blackened and scorched by fire, knelt the child. She was silently
sobbing. The man, for all one could see, might be dead, so white and
still did he lie.

Yet as the girls, still dressed in great coats and rubber hats, stepped
into the room, his eyes opened; his lips moved and the girls heard him
murmur:

"Ah, the firemen. Now my books will burn, the house will go. They all
will burn. But like Montcalm at Quebec, I shall not live to see my
defeat."

"No, no, no!" the child sprang to her feet. "They must not burn! They
shall not burn!"

"Calm yourself," said Lucile, advancing into the room and removing her
coat as she did so. "It is only I, your friend, Lucile. The fire is two
blocks away and there is reason to hope that this part of Tyler street
will be saved. The huge concrete building is burning out from within but
is standing rugged as a great rock. It is your protection."

"Ah, then I shall die happy," breathed the man.

"No! No! No!" almost screamed the child. "You shall not die."

"Hush, my little one," whispered the man. "Do not question the wisdom of
the Almighty. My hour has come. Soon I shall be with my sires and with my
sons and grandsons; with all the brave ones who have so nobly defended
our beloved France.

"And as for you, my little one, you have here two friends and all my
books. It is in the tin box behind the books, my will. I have no living
kin. I have made you my heir. The books are worth much money. You are
well provided for. Your friends here will see that they are not stolen
from you, will you not?"

Florence and Lucile, too touched to trust themselves to speak, bowed
their heads.

"As for myself," the man went on in a hoarse whisper, "I have but one
regret.

"Come close," he beckoned to Lucile. "Come very close. I have something
more to tell you."

Lucille moved close to him, something seeming to say to her, "Now you are
to hear the gargoyle's secret."

"Not many days ago," he began, "I told you some of my life, but not all.
I could not. My heart was too sore. Now I wish to tell you all. You
remember that I said I took my books to Paris. That is not quite true. I
started with all of them but not all arrived. One box of them, the most
precious of all, was stolen while on the way and a box of cheap and
worthless books put in its place.

"Heartbroken at this loss, I traced the robbers as best I could at last
to find that the books had been carried overseas to America.

"I came to America. They had been sold, scattered abroad. The thief
eluded me, but the books I could trace. By the gargoyle in the corner and
by the descriptions of dealers in rare books, I located many of them.

"Those who had them had paid handsomely for them. They would not believe
an old man's story. They would not give them up.

"I brought suit in the courts. It was no use. No one would believe me.

"Young lady," the old man's voice all but died away as his feeble fingers
clutched at the covers, "young lady, every man has some wish which he
hopes to fulfill. He may desire to become rich, to secure power, to write
a book, to paint a great picture. There is always something. As for me, I
wished but one thing, a very little thing: to die with the books, those
precious volumes I had inherited. The foolish wish of a childish old man,
perhaps, but that was my wish. The war has taken my family. They cannot
gather by my bedside; I have only my books. And, thanks to this child,"
he attempted to place his hand on the child's bowed head, "thanks to her,
there are but few missing at this, the last moment."

For a little there was silence in the room, then the whisper began again,
this time more faint:

"Perhaps it was wrong, the way I taught the child to get the books. But
they were really my own. I had not sold one of them. They were all my
own. She knows where they came from. When I am gone, if that is the way
of America, they may all be returned."

Lucile hesitated for a moment, then bent over the dying man.

"The books," she whispered. "Were two of them very small ones?"

The expression on the dying man's face grew eager as he answered, "Yes,
yes, very small and very rare. One was a book about fishing and the
other--ah, that one!--that was the rarest of all. It had been written in by
the great Napoleon and had been presented by him to one of his marshals,
my uncle."

Lucile's hand came out from behind her back. In it were two books.

"Are these the ones?" she asked.

"Yes, yes," he breathed hoarsely. "Those are the very most precious ones.
I die--I die happy."

For a second the glassy eyes stared, then lighted up with a smile that
was beautiful to behold.

"Ah!" he breathed, "I am happy now, happy as when a child I played
beneath the grapevines in my own beloved France."

Those were his last words. A moment later, Lucile turned to lead the
silently weeping child into another room. As she did so, she encountered
a figure standing with bowed head.

It was the studious looking boy who had donned the fireman's coat and
followed them.

"Harry Brock!" she whispered. "How did you come here?"

"I came in very much the same manner that you came," he said quietly. "I
have been where you have been many times of late. I did not understand,
but I thought you needed protection and since I thought of myself as the
best friend you had among the men at the university, I took that task
upon myself. I have been in this room, unnoticed, for some time. I heard
what he said and now I think I understand. Please allow me to
congratulate you and--and to thank you. You have strengthened my faith
in--in all that is good and beautiful."

He stepped awkwardly aside and allowed her to pass.

CHAPTER XXV
BETTER DAYS

There was no time for explanations that night. The fire had been checked;
the cottage and the rare books were safe, but there were many other
things to be attended to. It was several days before Lucile met Harry
Brock again and then it was by appointment, in the Cozy Corner Tea Room.

Her time during the intervening days was taken up with affairs relating
to her new charge, the child refugee, Marie. She went at once to Frank
Morrow for advice. He expressed great surprise at the turn events had
taken but told her that he had suspected from the day she had told the
story to him that the books had been stolen from Monsieur Le Bon.

"And now we will catch the thief and if he has money we will make him
pay," he declared stoutly.

He made good his declaration. Through the loosely joined but powerful
league of book sellers he tracked down the man with the birthmark on his
chin and forced him to admit the theft of the case of valuable books. As
for money with which to make restitution, like most of his kind he had
none. He could only be turned over to the "Tombs" to work out his
atonement.

The books taken from the university and elsewhere were offered back to
the last purchasers. In most cases they returned them as the child's
rightful possession, to be sold together with the many other rare books
which had been left to Marie by Monsieur Le Bon. In all there was quite a
tidy sum of money realized from the sale. This was put in trust for
Marie, the income from it to be used for her education.

As for that meeting of Lucile and Harry in the tea room, it was little
more than a series of exclamations on the part of one or the other of
them as they related their part in the mysterious drama.

"And you followed us right out into the country that night we went to the
Ramsey cottage?" Lucile exclaimed.

"Yes, up to the wall," Harry admitted. "The water stopped me there."

"And it was you who told the police I was in danger when that terrible
man and woman locked me in?"

Harry bowed his assent.

He related how night after night, without understanding their strange
wanderings, he had followed the two girls about as a sort of bodyguard.

When Lucile thought how many sleepless nights it had cost him, her heart
was too full for words. She tried to thank him. Her lips would not form
words.

"But don't you see," he smiled; "you were trying to help someone out of
her difficulties and I was trying to help you. That's the way the whole
world needs to live, I guess, if we are all to be happy."

Lucile smiled and agreed that he had expressed it quite correctly, but
down deep in her heart she knew that she would never feel quite the same
toward any of her other fellow students as she did toward him at that
moment. And so their tea-party ended.

Frank Morrow insisted on the girls' accepting the two-hundred-dollar
reward. There were two other rewards which had been offered for the
return of missing books, so in the end Lucile and Florence found
themselves in a rather better financial state.

As for Marie, she was taken into the practice school of the university.
By special arrangement she was given a room in the ladies' dormitory. It
was close to that of her good friends, Lucile and Florence, so she was
never lonely, and in this atmosphere which was the world she was meant to
live in she blossomed out like a flower in the spring sunshine.

The Roy J. Snell Books

Mr. Snell is a versatile writer who knows how to write stories that
will please boys and girls. He has traveled widely, visited many
out-of-the-way corners of the earth, and being a keen observer has found
material for many thrilling stories. His stories are full of adventure
and mystery, yet in the weaving of the story there are little threads
upon which are hung lessons in loyalty, honesty, patriotism and right
living.

Mr. Snell has created a wide audience among the younger readers of
America. Boy or girl, you are sure to find a Snell book to your liking.
His works cover a wide and interesting scope.

Here are the titles of the Snell Books:

_Mystery Stories for Boys_

1. Triple Spies
2. Lost in the Air
3. Panther Eye
4. The Crimson Flash
5. White Fire
6. The Black Schooner
7. The Hidden Trail
8. The Firebug
9. The Red Lure
10. Forbidden Cargoes
11. Johnny Longbow
12. The Rope of Gold
13. The Arrow of Fire
14. The Gray Shadow
15. Riddle of the Storm
16. The Galloping Ghost
17. Whispers at Dawn; or, The Eye
18. Mystery Wings
19. Red Dynamite
20. The Seal of Secrecy
21. The Shadow Passes
22. Sign of the Green Arrow

_The Radio-Phone Boys' Series_

1. Curlie Carson Listens In
2. On the Yukon Trail
3. The Desert Patrol
4. The Seagoing Tank
5. The Flying Sub
6. Dark Treasure
7. Whispering Isles
8. Invisable Wall

_Adventure Stories for Girls_

1. The Blue Envelope
2. The Cruise of the O'Moo
3. The Secret Mark
4. The Purple Flame
5. The Crimson Thread
6. The Silent Alarm
7. The Thirteenth Ring
8. Witches Cove
9. The Gypsy Shawl
10. Green Eyes
11. The Golden Circle
12. The Magic Curtain
13. Hour of Enchantment
14. The Phantom Violin
15. Gypsy Flight
16. The Crystal Ball
17. A Ticket to Adventure
18. The Third Warning

* * * * * *

Transcriber's note:

--Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text--this
e-text is in the public domain in the country of publication.

--Obvious typographical errors were corrected without comment.

--Dialect and non-standard spellings were not changed.

--Promotional material was moved to the end of the book, and
the list of books in the three series was completed by using
other sources.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Secret Mark - An Adventure Story for Girls" ***

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