When it arrived, Robert Hooker, an intelligent, but by no means wealthy, bibliophile, made a request to see it; to hold within his mortal hands this magnificent relic of the two great Elizabethans.

"No!" was Fields' curt response.

It had been rumored that Robert Hooker was founding a museum in some unknown spot--but where the money was to come from was a mystery.

It appeared that the Bacon-Shakespeare volume was locked up in a steel vault in the Fields' residence, guarded by an approved time-lock and other interesting features. The book was never to be removed from the safe, unless in the presence of the owner and a trusted servant.

Robert Hooker was extremely desirous of adding this treasure to his mythical museum! He said it was an outrage that one man, on account of the accident of great wealth, should become the sole possessor of it.

It was a shock to public decency! It should repose, as it had for more than seventy years, in a library or an inst.i.tution, where it could be freely seen. He therefore resolved to add it to his own.

But how? The book was constantly under guard in a guaranteed burglar-proof vault. To employ the most experienced crackmen to undertake the job would be almost insane. He could not try to subst.i.tute a facsimile as in the "Three Trees." To bribe the guard was foolhardy because the guard did not know the combination of the safety-lock. He was at his wit's end! Not a single practical idea entered his head. For once he was at the end of his resources!

Robert Hooker was a great lover of books. Like other kinds of love, the more he was denied, the greater the love grew; and time added fuel to the flames.

One evening in his library he was thinking what a pity it was that he could not see with his own eyes this evasive little book, when an idea flashed through his brain.

That night he did not sleep.

The following day Hooker paid a visit to an old building in lower New York. It was the United States Custom House. He asked to see an appraiser whom he had known from boyhood days, and he talked with him for an hour about the weather, the base-ball score and other absorbing questions.

"By the way, Girard, that was a nice purchase Fields made last month--I mean the Bacon volume. I suppose you saw it when it came through the Customs!"

"No, I don't remember it. That's curious."

"Well, at any rate, it was free of duty by age!"

"I know that, Hooker. But even so, everything worth over ten thousand dollars, I personally examine."

"Well, it doesn't make much difference. The book should come in without paying duty. Perhaps it came by another port."

"No, through this. All Fields' things come here. We are told to always hurry his through. He's got lots of pull, and we like to oblige him."

"Yes, of course."

"But Fields, too, has to obey the letter of the law. I want to look this thing up."

Mr. Girard was gone for over half an hour. He returned. "Here's the thing. Look at this consular invoice."

"Bacon's Essays 1597. 200."

"But what good does it do? The book comes in free, if it's worth a million!"

"I know. But Fields wanted this cleared the very day it was received.

He or no one else has a right to undervalue, even if the article does not pay duty. I'm going to find out about this. I'm going to get that book back and examine it. Fields or no Fields, he must obey the law!

I might get fired for this."

The owner of the Bacon was much disturbed. Mr. Fields did not like the publicity that followed the newspaper revelations. He was much annoyed at one newspaper which said that if he undervalued non-dutiable things, how about those that carried a high impost?

Of course, the whole matter was nothing. And yet he was vexed. He did not like the notice that a Treasury official was to call for the sacred package that reposed within the solid walls of his safe.

The next day, a gentleman with an order from the Treasury Department of the United States paid him a visit. It was an official messenger in a blue suit with a conspicuous nickel badge. The great steel doors were opened and closed; the book was then removed; an instant later the click of the lock was heard. The other treasures in the vault were safe against the machinations of men!

Twenty minutes later another official called. Mr. Fields thought at first it was the same gentleman returning. He came for a book that had been under-valued at the Custom House.

"What! I've just given it to one of your men!"

"Impossible, Mr. Fields. This order was issued to me!"

"Why, that's a fake. Why, the one just presented to me had a big red government seal on it. It was signed by the head of the Treasury."

"Must have been a forgery. This is merely an order signed by Mr. Bond, the representative at New York. But it's genuine!"

The various theories of the robbery that were advanced would have filled many volumes. Even the British Museum was suspected!

Mr. Girard, the appraiser, felt in his inmost soul that Robert Hooker knew something about it. He told his story to the greatest detective in the world, who was in charge of the case for the Government. He did not want to issue a warrant for Hooker's arrest without any evidence whatever. He could not take into custody an honorable gentleman merely on suspicion. He had to have tangible proof.

The great detective accordingly employed three able a.s.sistants to examine every nook and corner of Hooker's house, including his library.

All this was done during the absence of the owner. The police even employed pickpockets to jostle him on the streets to make sure the book was not upon his person. Hooker had been under surveillance three hours after the robbery; it was either in the house, or he was not guilty.

Every book in his large library was examined. The police authorities finally had a complete catalogue of his collection, which some day will make interesting reading. The detectives took pen and pencil and noted the t.i.tles of every volume with the year of publication; they admitted that bibliography and literary work was not to their liking. It lacked excitement and they all agreed it was only fit for poets, professors, and other inferior persons.

The detectives found it much easier at first to look for a volume bound in red levant morocco with "Bacon's Essayes" in gold letters on the back. This was the description given them of the original.

Fearing some error, and being naturally suspicious, they were compelled to be scholarly and open the volumes, but they did not find one dated 1597, or which answered in any way to the form and matter of the missing volume.

After a month of search, the detectives came to the conclusion that the book was not in his possession. Robert Hooker was guiltless!

When he is not going out of an evening, Hooker will often remain by the fireside in his library, reading his favorite authors. When no one is about, he will go to the largest book-case, and in a conspicuous place in the centre of the third shelf, he will take down a small thick volume, which he handles tenderly. He will often touch it fondly with his lips. It is bound in shabby old black calf and is labelled on the back "Johnson's Lives." Opening the volume you will see the curious t.i.tle-page, which reads: "The History of the Lives and Actions of the most famous Highwaymen and Robbers. By Charles Johnson. London.

Printed in the year 1738."

Sewed in the centre, and uniform in size, is another book which a short time before was one of the glories of the British Museum. It had been bereft of its red morocco covering.

It is destined to be the chief article of interest in another museum, to be founded for the use and instruction of the public for all time.

For Shakespeare and Bacon are immortal!

THE COLONIAL SECRETARY

One of the most eccentric characters in the book-world was Doctor Morton. He knew a great deal of the lore of books and made a splendid living by stealing them. Old volumes were meat and drink to him. He lived quietly and respectably in a small New England town where he was honored for his learning and piety.

Although Dr. Morton was a thief, a pilferer of libraries and collectors, he committed a far greater crime, for which it is impossible to forgive him. Murder, a.s.sa.s.sination, arson and treason were naught to this unspeakable thing. It was worse than the Seven Deadly Sins.

Doctor Morton was unlike the celebrated Spanish bibliophile, who, not being able to obtain it in any other way, killed a fellow-collector in order to secure a unique volume of early Castilian laws. He died upon the scaffold unrepentant, maintaining that the prize was worth it. All honor to poor Don Vincente of Aragon! His name shall always be tenderly cherished by lovers of books!