"Oh, no, you won't. I have your receipt in full."
Mr. Welford thought a minute. A grim smile overspread his features.
"I congratulate thee, Doctor. If thee can get the better of a
Philadelphia Quaker, thou art welcome to the profit!"
Now this has nothing to do with Robert Hooker. It appears upon further
investigation, however, that the candle-stick made by Paul Revere,
silversmith and patriot, that stood upon the mantel-piece of the
Doctor's home in Connecticut, was known under the outrageous name of
"Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy in Old Calf."
Why this candle-stick was catalogued in this mysterious way was known
only to Doctor Morton.
Three years ago the first edition of Burton's great book, published in
Oxford in 1621, and in its original calf binding, was borrowed by the
Doctor, who said he was writing an article for the _Atlantic Monthly_,
on "Old Burton and the Anatomy."
The owner of the book could not resist the gentle demands of the true
scholar, and sent the volume. He ought to have known better, for his
name was Robert Hooker!
It was not soothing to the imaginations of book-lovers when it became
known that the two gems from Welford's library had gone into the
rapacious hands of Doctor Morton, to be turned into an old mahogany
sofa or a colonial high-boy.
It was criminal, and must be prevented at all costs. And Robert
Hooker, smarting under the recollection of the loss of the "Anatomy"
thought he would like to add wicked "Penn" and "Poor Richard" to his
household. They would prove a considerable addition to his "museum of
the imagination."
How to secure them was a problem! Ordinary methods could not be
applied to the extraordinary Doctor Morton! The wisdom of the serpent
was as nothing to the vivid intellectuality of the Connecticut Sage!
It must be confessed that only New England could have produced him;
only the rarified bookish atmosphere of three hundred years could have
engendered a creature of such genius!
Hooker never despaired. A remedy was close at hand.
He was walking one day, on Thirty-ninth Street, and just off Broadway,
he noticed a very handsome mahogany secretary in an antique store. He
entered the establishment, and asked its price.
"A hundred dollars!" said the proprietor. "This piece is believed to
have been once the property of Thomas Jefferson. I purchased it from
one of his heirs."
"I'll take it," said Hooker simply.
Three weeks later Doctor Morton entered a little shop on Fourth Avenue.
He had received a letter from the head partner, asking him to call the
next time he came to New York, and inspect a piece of colonial
furniture of the greatest historical interest.
The doctor was almost carried away when he beheld the beautiful relic
of revolutionary days. This would grace his home with rare charm! He
asked the price.
"Forty-five hundred dollars!"
"I don't understand. Why is it so valuable?"
"That's Thomas Jefferson's desk. It comes from his heirs; the
Declaration of Independence was written on it!"
"That's a pretty story. Where's your proof? Without documentary
evidence, it's not worth more than a hundred dollars."
"I have the proof, Doctor. Look here."
The proprietor then rolled back the top. He put his finger upon a
secret drawer. He took out a letter and handed it in silence to Doctor
Morton.
He read as follows:
Monticello, June 12, 1821.
This secretary which is five feet four inches high and three feet wide,
made of Santa Domingo mahogany, was purchased by me in Philadelphia in
November, 1775, of Robert Aitken, the printer. Upon this desk, I wrote
in my home on High Street near Seventh, the celebrated instrument known
as the Declaration of Independence. Thinking that my heirs and others
would value this article for its association with the sacred cause of
liberty, I make this statement.
Witness my hand and seal, this twelfth day of June, 1821, and the year
of American Independence, the forty-fifth.
THO. JEFFERSON.
Doctor Morton looked carefully at the letter. He examined the red
wafer with "T. J." in faded letters upon it.
Accompanying the letter was another from one of the heirs of the
celebrated statesman.
"The desk is cheap at any--" Doctor Morton blurted. He caught himself
in time.
"I'd like to own it. I'd give your price, but haven't the cash. I
have some old books worth lots of money. Perhaps we can arrange a
trade."
For two hours the two worked over this momentous transaction. At the
end of that time, and in consideration of a rare pamphlet containing
scurrilous remarks on William Penn, an old ephemeris printed by
Benjamin Franklin and seven hundred and fifty dollars in cash, the
mahogany colonial secretary was transferred to Doctor Willis Morton--to
have and hold forever.
One evening, about a month later, the eccentric collector of the little
Connecticut town sat down in his chair to gloat over and hold communion
with his "literary" treasures, for he did not call them articles of
virtu or specimens of bric-a-brac, or furniture of the Jacobean period,
but gave each piece that was dear to him a name that smacked of books
and learning. His mind turned to the evil early life of William Penn,
and the wisdom of Poor Richard, while at the same time his eyes were
riveted upon a beautiful eighteenth century desk. A bell interrupted
his agreeable visions. A telegram had arrived. He opened it
hurriedly, and read:
Please look under red wax wafer on Jefferson's letter. Important
Information. R. H.
Doctor Morton went to the secretary, and taking the letter in his
trembling hands, gingerly lifted the seal of the third President of the
United States.
"Damn!" he cried, as he read in minute letters:
"A forgery,--in pleasant memory of my lost 'Anatomy.'
"Robert Hooker, _fecit_."
IN DEFENCE OF HIS NAME
He was again talking of his ancestors. He was always talking of his
ancestors....
It was in the library of a Fifth Avenue club, but the gentlemen seated
at a window overlooking the famous thoroughfare were not discussing
books. They were examining with care the beautiful ladies that always
decorated this brilliant highway.
"_That_--with the blue bonnet and the short blue sleeves, is Mrs.
Wilberforce Andre," said John Stuyvesant DePuyster. "Her husband is a
descendant of Varick who served as aide-de-camp to General Arnold."
"That doesn't make her more attractive," said Robert Hooker.
DePuyster ignored the remark. "My great grandfather--"
"We know all about him," chorused the others. "Let-up, please. Have
mercy on us, it's a hot day."
"My great grandmother, on my father's side--" persisted DePuyster.
"We know all about _her_!" the others answered, wearily.
"But Mrs. Andre reminds me of an interesting story. And you are always
looking for stories. In January, 1779, my great grandfather was
serving on the staff of Benedict Arnold. As you know, it was he, John
Stuyvesant DePuyster, my namesake, who rescued the colors so gallantly
at Saratoga--who fought at Germantown--who almost starved at Valley
Forge--who rescued General Greene at the risk of his life--who was
wounded with two bullets in his flank at the battle of Trenton--who
served so brilliantly under Mad Anthony Wayne--who--"
The others looked at each other furtively, with misery indicated on
every feature.
One of them, the great autograph collector, Robert Hooker, nervously
twitched his fingers. He seemed in agony, and looked around, evidently
for signs of relief.
--"Who received a medal for gallantry at Monmouth," chronicled the
voice in a perfectly satisfied tone,--"who rebuked Colonel
Tarleton--who was praised even by the British commander Lord Howe--who
sat at the court-martial of Andre--and who--"
"Was a traitor to his country!" said Hooker, quietly.
Everyone looked uneasy. They all hated scenes. But at any rate, it
was a fortunate escape. A duel with bloodshed would be better than
DePuyster's stories!
"Sir," he returned hotly, "an accusation such as this has never been
made against our family!"
"Then I shall be the first to make it."
"It is outrageous,--a damnable, lying statement, and you've got to
prove it I I'll force it back into your throat, you slanderer! You've
got to prove it, I say, Sir!"
"I have the proof!"
"Then you've got to show it. I demand it. I have the right to demand
it."
"Two weeks from now, there will be sold at the Amhurst Auction
Galleries, an autograph letter of General Arnold, in which he speaks of
General DePuyster as an accomplice, who was ready to turn over to the
British cause his honor and his sword. The catalogue will be issued in
two weeks' time, and the full text of the letter printed. It might be
well for your precious family that this letter remains unpublished!"
"I'll look it up at once," said DePuyster. "Until you prove your
statement, I'll not notice or speak to you, Sir."
A week later an old autograph letter was shown to him at the
cataloguing rooms of the auction-house. DePuyster had called every
day, but it was a week before he was allowed to see it. It was to be
sold as the "property of a gentleman."
With trembling hands, he examined this tomb of the secrets of the
illustrious DePuyster, this time-stained document with faded writing.
The letter read as follows:
Robinson's House,
September 2, 1780.
Sir:--
Everything is progressing as agreed. I have secured a pass for Hett
Smith. I suppose the ordnance at West Point is the same as given.
What of the military force? We have not enough to help us _on this
side_. We need more than two, a third or fourth person is required.
Colonel DePuyster, in charge of the ordnance, has given me his word
that he will be ready when called upon. He has already written me,
giving the number of blackberries in the first field. He is of great
assistance, and his name, which has always stood for honor in America,
will prove a great asset to us. It is a name that is like Caesar's
wife, and has never been _suspected_. I have supplied the third
help-mate; will you furnish our fourth?
I am, Sir, with great respect,
Your most obedient humble servant,
GUSTAVUS.
Maj. John Anderson.
The descendant of the gallant revolutionary soldier trembled like a
coward. The name of John Anderson and Gustavus were well-known to him
as those assumed by Andre and Arnold in the great conspiracy. The
hand-writing was, undoubtedly, Arnold's; he had letters in his own home
written by the infamous general to Col. DePuyster, his great
grandfather--letters written years before the treason--and the writing
was identical.
"What--what will you take for this letter?" asked DePuyster.
"It will be sold at auction in two weeks' time," the clerk answered,
politely.
"But I would like to purchase it before the sale."
"Sorry, sir, but its owner will sell only at public sale. The
competition will cause it to bring a high price."
"Who is the owner?"
"I don't know."
"Can't you find out?"
"He desires to remain unknown."
"Tell him for me, that I will give any price for it before it is
published in the catalogue."
"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Hooker also came here to examine it. He
wanted to buy it. He is a great expert, you know, and he always
desired a letter of General Arnold's--about the treason. Mr. Sterling
also wants it. He has a letter giving the amount Arnold received for
betraying his country. It is said his letter is worth five thousand
dollars. This is worth almost as much."
"I'll give him five thousand for this one."
"No, sir. You will have to wait until the sale."
Mr. Hooker sat at the club window. The feminine decorations of the
Avenue did not interest him. He was thinking of poor DePuyster.
Someone had just told him that DePuyster had remained indoors, not
daring to show his face at the Club. He was at his apartments drinking
Scotch whiskeys to take his mind away from the letter which haunted
him. He could not bear to look into pedigrees and genealogies, which
used to be his constant companions.
Hooker was actually sorry for the descendant of the stalwart
Revolutionary hero, who dared not face his friends--much less his
enemies. He would give the old man a tip! he said to himself. Anyhow
it was delicious to have seen DePuyster's face when the accusation was
made.
"DePuyster made me so nervous that I just _had_ to do it. But I'll
give him a hint. I'll write him, telling him perhaps the letter is a
forgery. That will give him a chance. As a gentleman of honor, I
shall write him. I should wish the proof, like his ancestors, to be
"above suspicion!"
The letter was received by DePuyster, who becoming suddenly brave,
faced the light of day, and made the astounding charge to the president
of the auction-house that the Arnold (Gustavus) letter was nothing but
a forgery! A rank imitation, a fabrication to blackmail a noble family
distinguished for three hundred years in American History!
The president grew angry; the letter had been passed upon by well-known
experts, as well as their own cataloguers of autographs; it was
undoubtedly genuine, and would be sold as such.
"I'll sue you for damages, if you publish that letter before it is
passed upon by the greatest experts in the world."
"Go ahead and sue," said the president, turning away.
DePuyster, however, had among his numerous acquaintances, many famous
lawyers, one of whom secured an injunction, preventing the sale, and
impounding the letter.
It came later before the Court which, with unusual wisdom, stated that
the matter should be decided by three disinterested experts, one to be
selected by the Court, one by the auction-house, and one by DePuyster.
The contestants assembled in the little court-room which was crowded
with friends of the parties to the suit, and eminent autograph and
book-collectors. They came from many cities to hear the wrangle over
the famous letter, and to witness the battle of the experts.
The name of each expert was placed in an envelope, and sealed.
"The appointment of the Court--is Robert Hooker," announced the judge,
tearing to pieces the envelope.
"The expert for the defense," read the judge, tearing open another
envelope, "is Robert Hooker.
"The expert that will represent the plaintiff," continued His Honor,
breaking with his fingers the manila paper, "is Robert Hooker."
All eyes were turned to the corner where Robert Hooker sat unconcerned.
He seemed, in a measure, overwhelmed by this new distinction.
He had been known the world over as a collector of autographs and
manuscripts, but he had never been called upon as an expert.
Hooker arose. He examined the letter but for an instant.
"I have formed an opinion, Your Honor."
"So soon?"
"Yes."
"What is your decision?"
"It is a forgery!"
"Are you certain?"
"Without a shadow of a doubt!"
"Why are you so positive," queried the Judge, "when so many other
authorities state that it is genuine?"
"I am positive," said Hooker, "because I wrote it myself!"
There was an uproar in the Court.
"Please explain, sir," said the judge sternly.
"DePuyster had become such a pest, such a terror to his friends by his
family anecdotes and antique stories that I could stand it no longer.
I was literally bored to death. I made the charge in jest. DePuyster
took it so seriously that I was compelled to supply the proof. I
purchased an old sheet of writing paper with the water-mark of the
Revolutionary period. I practised for hours, so I could imitate
General Arnold's handwriting. When I finished the letter I almost
thought it an original myself! The farce was wonderful! The hoax--a
joy! I thought that I had become a Good Samaritan who had saved his
friends from a very tiresome old gentleman with a hobby for family
history. When my name was first called--I hesitated, but when you all
selected me, I was overwhelmed with the distinguished honor. I told
the truth, and spoiled a story."
"You have _created_ a story!" said the judge.
"THE HUNDRED AND FIRST STORY"
The owner did not at the time of the robbery suspect anyone. The
volume had disappeared; that was all. Yesterday the famous copy of
Boccaccio printed by Valdarfer in the year of grace 1471 had been one
of the talked-of things in John Libro's famous library. It had reposed
in its case along with its ancient companions, who in the silence of
the night would relate to one another the right merry tales of Fair
Jehan, of Patient Grissel, of Launcelot du Lac; and their morocco sides
would shake with laughter at the quips of Giovanni Boccaccio, of
Certaldo, and the rude, trenchant jests of Master Francis Rabelais.
The fine old volume, which had been the envy and despair of
book-lovers, had only recently been added to the collection of Mr.
Libro. In 1812 it had the proud record of selling for over L2000 and
since then it had a most splendid career, having been fondled and loved
by only the elite of the bibliomaniac world. Its owners had been
knights, viscounts, dukes, kings, emperors,--and bibliophiles!
On the night of December 12, 1910, the "Valdarfer Boccaccio," as it had
been termed, had been shown to a number of members of the "Maioli
Club," a club consisting only of those interested in rare prints,
books, typography, early manuscripts, and money. The volume, after
having been sufficiently admired, handled, looked into, collated and
gossiped over, was locked in its case by Mr. Libro, who felt a feeling
of relief when the doors were shut and the key stored safely in his
pocket. He did not like the rude way some of the younger and
inexperienced members handled the precious gift of the gods; and a very
thoughtful and scholarly collector had the audacity and unheard of
temerity to read it!
The next morning on going into the library all Mr. Libro saw was a
vacancy in his favorite bookcase. Between the Dante of 1481 and the
Aldine "Poliphilus" was an oblong space that had been so gloriously
filled by the distinguished production of the press of Italy. The
Boccaccio had vanished!
The news of its loss was flashed over the entire world. Comment on its
strange disappearance was general; articles appeared in the newspapers
on how to safeguard the world's great literary treasures; the _London
Times_ had a leading article in which it was stated that "America did
not deserve to own things of inestimable artistic and intellectual
value if it did not know how to preserve them."
The first thing a gentleman does when he has been robbed is to call in
a detective whose name is always a household word in novels and plays.
Mr. Libro requested John Bunting to aid him with his advice,
notwithstanding the fact that he had been overwhelmed with suggestions
from every newspaper reporter in the United States and Canada.
At noon Bunting called. After asking the usual questions, which
although a great detective, he did not disdain to do, he requested Mr.
Libro to tell him the names of his guests of the night before.
"But, Mr. Bunting, I tell you I myself locked the case, put the key in
my pocket, and retired. They could not possibly have extracted it in
my presence, and I saw the last of them to the door."
"I would like their names."
"But I do not suspect any of them, Mr. Bunting."
"That is not so, Mr. Libro, if I may be permitted to say so. You do
not care to admit it, but you suspect someone of that Literary Club."
"I am suspicious of my best friends, but dare not indicate any one. If
you want their names, I shall tell you--James Blakely, the great
authority on Elizabethan Poetry; Henry Sterling, of Sterling, Petty &
Co.; Robert Rodd, who knows more about the first editions of Paradise
Lost than anyone; Edward Stevens; James Janney--that's five--there were
six,-- Oh, yes, Robert Hooker. He is quite a student but does not
possess the bank account to buy all the books he wants. He would spend
a million a year if he had it. He was the underbidder on the
Boccaccio. Yes, Mr. Bunting, Hooker came near owning it once. I sent
an unlimited bid for it at the Sunderland Sale. He tried to buy it
from the bookseller who acted as my agent, when he found his own bid
had not been high enough."
"Mr. Libro, that is interesting. It was no ordinary thief, however,
who took it. The ordinary New Yorker does not know the difference
between _that_ book and one by Marie Corelli!"
Bunting began the investigation at once. He followed zealously every
clew. A few notorious criminals, who were seen in the immediate
vicinity of the house, were interviewed without result. One of them,
who had been noticed a block from the house shortly after midnight, was
locked up on suspicion. He was discharged from custody the next
morning as nothing could be proved against him. This individual, who
was known to the police as "Booky" Phillips, had been arrested many
times, but never convicted. The Chief found him quite placid under the
rapid fire of his questions. He had read of the lost Boccaccio in the
_Herald_, but did not understand why any "self-respecting thief would
stoop to steal a worthless old book!"
As a last resort Bunting was compelled to investigate the members of
the Maioli Club. Although they were book-lovers the detective found,
much to his surprise, that they were respectable citizens. He called
one day upon Mr. Hooker without giving notice of his visit.
"Mr. Hooker," he said, "I would like to know about the book missing
from the Libro collection. Do you know where it is?"
Mr. Hooker seemed to be choking. His face grew red and he could not
answer for the moment. Bunting repeated the question and Hooker grew
angry.
"How dare you ask me such a thing? You are so accustomed to dealing
with thieves that you try your crude methods on everyone. The book
will turn up sometime; meanwhile myself and all my friends will be
continually annoyed by your insults and threats. Good-day."
The detective left. He felt sure that Hooker knew more than he cared
to admit. Perhaps the book was even now upon his shelves. He would
have his house and office searched. This was done. The Boccaccio was
nowhere to be seen.
Two years passed. The Valdarfer Boccaccio, which had been a day's
wonder, was forgotten by all except Mr. Libro and Mr. Hooker. They saw
each other rarely after the loss of the unlucky volume; in fact they
avoided each other. The incident was never mentioned among the members
of the Maioli Club--it was a thing never to be spoken of at its
meetings.
It was, however, again to be the subject of talk and gossip. On
December 12, 1912, two years to a day after its strange disappearance,
the volume turned up in all the glory of its illuminated page and
superb morocco binding. Giovanni Boccaccio had added another story to
the Hundred that composed his immortal collection.
And where had it been found? The last place in the entire world. In
the New York Public Library! For almost two years it had reposed
there, with no one to cherish it or dip into its witty contents. In a
book-case, side by side with other great masterpieces of literature, it
had remained neglected by the inhabitants of New York, who in the
newspapers of that great city figure as learned and scholarly! The old
story, "that the best place to _hide_ a book was in a Wall Street
broker's office" was found to be pleasant but fanciful fiction! It was
far safer in the public library: no one would look for it there!
On the morning of the twelfth of December a gentleman came to the
Inquiry Desk. He appeared to Mr. Jones, one of the assistant
librarians, to be interested in books on the subject of Religion, so he
requested the visitor to go with him to the book-stacks, as there were
too many of them to carry to the reading tables. And theological books
were always so heavy! While looking over the collection the man called
Mr. Jones' attention to the label of John Libro in one of them, and
asked why the "Decameron" of Boccaccio was put among the religious
books? Mr. Jones blushed! He gasped, however, when he recognized the
long-lost volume. He would take it at once to the principal librarian.
He first asked the stranger's name,--the fortunate discoverer of the
missing treasure. He gave Mr. Jones his card. Engraved thereon was
"B. Phillips."