A dim, strangely tinted light cast dark shadows over everything. The strange furniture took on grotesque forms. The t.i.tles 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 hoa.r.s.ely, "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 d.o.g.g.i.ng 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 pa.s.s them on?"