"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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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.