"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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.s 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 gla.s.ses.

"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 a.s.sist me in tiding them over.'