"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 pa.s.sed 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 antic.i.p.ating 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 cla.s.s 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.