quite facetious about it and went so far as to call the great building
on Fifth Avenue a Literary Mausoleum. Others suggested that the State
should appropriate money for the purchase of modern sex novels,--the
only books that were really read! But despite the jibes and
explanations the real mystery was unsolved. How was the book stolen
and why?
Three days later the following letter appeared in the newspapers. It
is given here because it will make a fitting ending to the Hundred and
First Tale of the Decameron.
New York, December 14, 1912.
Sir:
I have read with interest the various explanations given in the papers
concerning the disappearance of the book from Mr. Libro's library. I
can supply the key to the whole problem.
Some two years or so ago, I was stone broke. One day I read that Mr.
Libro had purchased at a great price the book which has caused all this
commotion. I thought I would lift it some night when I had nothing
better to do, and sell it back to its owner or some other book crank.
I called one afternoon at the Libro house with some magazines on
pretence of securing subscriptions. The ruse worked. Mr. Libro
ordered the _Bookman_,--a magazine I had never heard of. He showed me
one or two of his books,--these maniacs always want to show you their
things. I was bored to death, as you can imagine.
While he was signing the subscription blank I made a wax impression of
the key to the cases. That night I did a second story job. The window
was open. I easily found the library. But where was the confounded
book? I looked everywhere. There seemed to be millions of books. In
one case I noticed a shelf that was uneven. I looked at it. I saw the
name "Boccaccio." I placed the volume underneath my coat and left.
The evening papers were filled with the news. What could I do with the
volume? I could not keep it in my room, as I feared the police would
find it. I did not dream that it would be missed so soon, and I did
not anticipate all this fuss over a shabby old book. I tried to think
of a place to hide it, but could not. One of the papers said that a
Richard Hooker was the other crank who had bid for it at the auction
sale. If I went to him now he would refuse to buy it and arrest me.
I tried another and surer course. That night I went to Hooker's
house,--another second story job--and left the cursed book in the most
conspicuous place in the library. The next day I called on him. I
said I was Mr. Scott,--a detective. I accused him of stealing the book
from Mr. Libro. He said I lied. I told him he had the book in his
house now. From the expression on his face I knew I had him. He said
he had found the book in his library, but had not taken it and did not
know how it had got there. I asked him if he thought anyone would
believe him. He said--No! Everyone would think he had stolen it.
Hooker offered me a thousand dollars to take the book and say nothing.
I accepted two thousand dollars in cash. I took the book, but where to
hide it I did not know. It was under my coat when I was passing 42nd
Street and Fifth Avenue. A thought struck me. I would place it where
it would never be found. The people here have no time to read books;
it was the best place of all. In a moment I was in the library; I
threw the cursed old thing on one of the shelves. I left in great glee.
At the corner of 40th Street and the Avenue I was arrested by one of
Captain Bunting's men. They tried to get something on me, but could
not. I was innocent!
I am on my way to London to visit the British Museum, for I find the
study of books profitable.
Yours very truly,
B. PHILLIPS.
THE LADY OF THE BREVIARY
The Abelard Missal was lost to him forever.
When Mr. Richard Blaythwaite was alive, Robert Hooker had a small
chance, one in ten thousand perhaps, of securing it and adding this
beautiful memento of the Renaissance to his "museum of the
imagination." But now that Blaythwaite was dead, all hope of owning it
had vanished.
Hooker would not have hesitated, in the cause of the public, to have
taken it by fair means or foul from Blaythwaite, but he would not rob a
woman. He was singularly squeamish upon this point.
Richard Blaythwaite had left everything to his only daughter, including
the famous Abelard missal.
It was a marvelous manuscript dating from the sixteenth century, and
contained at the end the beautiful and tragic story of those mediaeval
lovers, Abelard and Heloise.
The pictures that decorated the missal, however, were its chief
glory.... They were the work of Giulio Clovio, and executed by the
great miniaturist for Philip the Second of Spain. The full page
illuminations, with the exquisite colors, heightened with gold, were
worth a king's ransom, or a queen's reputation. The binding was in
keeping with the superb quality of the breviary, being in old purple
morocco, the royal arms of Castile impressed in gold upon the sides.
Hooker tried in every way but could not give up the idea of being its
possessor. It haunted him at night, and during the day his mind
constantly reverted to its matchless colors and quaint designs.
He knew Miss Blaythwaite slightly, having met her in former days at her
father's house, when he used to delight in looking over his famous
library. The pity of it all was that the missal was to be in the
keeping of a woman. If it had gone to some collector who would
treasure it as a delectable gift of the gods, it would not be so bad.
But to a woman! The thought almost drove him mad.
One evening, in despair, he resolved to call at the fine old house, and
glance once more at the lovely picture of Abelard imprinting his last
kiss upon the lips of Heloise.
He felt some misgivings, when he was told that Miss Blaythwaite was at
home and would see him. He almost hated her, and he could not forbear
the thought that the Abelard missal was no more to her than her pet
dog, or the bracelet upon her fair wrist.
When she entered the room, he was taken aback. When he saw her some
years ago, she was but a slip of a girl, with long hair down her back.
She was now tall and stately, with beautiful deep blue eyes. She was
dressed simply; and Hooker thought exceedingly well, but he was not a
judge. He knew more about the morocco covering of an old book than a
lady's apparel.
"Good evening, Mr. Hooker. I'm glad you called," she said.
"Thank you, Miss Blaythwaite. It's been a long time since I've had the
pleasure of seeing you."
"Yes, you've rather neglected us lately. Are you still interested in
books? Poor father had quite a mania for them."
"That's what first brought me to the house. Do you remember how we
used to spend hours going over his books?"
"Hours? It seemed ages to mother and me. Poor mother, how furious she
used to be when father brought those dusty old books into the house.
She used to say that father threw away his money on them. He'd give a
hundred dollars for a shabby old thing, when he could have bought a
nice, modern edition for five."
At this, Robert Hooker was speechless!
"I suppose you would like to see some of the additions to the library,"
Miss Blaythwaite continued, "father bought books until he died. You
know he caught pneumonia by going to an auction-sale, one cold day last
winter. This is the book he bought,--but at what a cost!"
She took from the shelves which lined the walls, a small volume. It
was a copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, the first edition; published in
1609.
"And the strange part of it all, Mr. Hooker, I believe in my heart that
papa never regretted its purchase."
Hooker was about to remark that it was worth the risk, but checked
himself in time.
"It was foolish. Your father, however, was a true bibliophile."
Miss Blaythwaite returned this volume of volumes to its position in the
case, and when Hooker saw it, he turned pale. She had put it in upside
down--a terrible thing to do. One would have to stand upon his head to
read the title, and booklovers do not believe in gymnastics.
He immediately placed it in its proper position, carefully,
tenderly--as if it had been a baby, which was precious to him, but not
quite so precious as an old book or manuscript!
"Father could not bear us to put books in upside down, but mother and I
would often forget, and the way father scolded, you would think we had
committed a horrid crime."
At this, they both laughed.
When Hooker was shown the breviary, he lingered for a long time over
its magic pages. He felt the cool vellum leaves with his fingers, for
fear lest the missal would slip through his hand, and disappear forever!
For over two months, Hooker was a constant visitor at the Blaythwaite
home. He became intimately acquainted with every book in the library;
he could tell the exact date of publication of the early printed
volumes; the place where it was printed; the name of the binder, and
other useless information.
Even Miss Blaythwaite caught some of the contagion. She, who had
formerly cared nothing for her father's "playthings," became interested
in them. Sometimes she would take down from a shelf a volume of old
English poetry, and become absorbed in the lyrical sweetness of the
verse. Occasionally, she would read aloud to Hooker some beautiful
poems that she had discovered in Ben Jonson, in Crashaw, or in Herrick;
and he would tell her of his aspirations, and of the Museum that
existed only in his mind. He told her of the wonderful things he
already possessed.
Although Hooker had known Miss Blaythwaite for some time, she was to
him always, the Lady of the Breviary.
When he felt the delicious warmth of her hand, he thought of the
missal; when she was seated near him, poring over some old volume of
forgotten lore, his mind turned to its wonderful binding, or its
miraculous miniatures. Strange as it may seem, Miss Blaythwaite was
nothing more to him than the guardian and sole owner of a book that his
soul desired. Sometimes, when they were reading together some volume
of Elizabethan verse, another caller would be announced; Hooker would
be presented, and then he would retire gracefully to her father's
library, leaving the field clear to his rival. This, of course, was
not flattering to Miss Blaythwaite!
One night, Jack Worthing was there before him. He was a clean-cut,
manly fellow, interested first in sports, and after that in business.
He had known Miss Blaythwaite for years. The talk turned, as it will
always turn, when bibliophiles are present, upon books.
"I don't understand you fellows," said Worthing. "You think more of an
old book than many people of their children!"
"Of course! Children often grow up into ill-mannered youths and
conceited young ladies. Books always remain young and delightful!"
"But, confound it! You never read them. You have thousands around you
all the time, and I bet you don't read ten a year."
"Rare books are meant to be carefully nurtured during our lives, and
passed on after our death to those who will appreciate them. Only
college professors, students, scholars, and such people ever _read_
books," answered Hooker, contemptuously.
"I think book-men the most foolish class of persons on earth," retorted
Worthing. "Give me some good old sport, like boxing, or foot-ball,
that makes your heart tingle, that causes the red blood to shoot
through your veins--that makes life worth living! Man wasn't created
to spend his life roaming around a dusky old library, when he can go
out into God's pure air and enjoy the fields and the streams, the
forests and the lakes!"
At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to smile approvingly.
Hooker said nothing. Bibliophiles are not missionaries. They do not
go into the by-ways of the world to uphold their creeds, for the love
of books is such a wonderful thing that it can never be explained!
When he left Miss Blaythwaite that night, he felt that the breviary was
farther from him than ever.
Hooker, however, came swiftly to a decision.
The only way he could obtain the Abelard Missal, was by marrying Miss
Blaythwaite. The next evening he called, with this firmly fixed in his
mind. This wily, calculating book-worm had slowly crept into her
affections. He knew she liked him, but would she marry him?
He asked her with great fervor, which was assumed, whether she would
become his wife. He waited breathlessly for her answer.
"I want to be frank with you, Robert," she said. "I do not think you
love me."
"How can you say such a thing?"
"Instinctively, I feel it. I like you, but I cannot marry you."
"Why not? Is there someone else?"
Miss Blaythwaite smiled.
"Yes."
"I never dreamed of it. Of course I might have known."
"You do know, Robert."
"Is it Jack Worthing?"
"No."
"Then, who is it?"
"It's that old missal. You are more in love with _that_, than you are
with me. I can see it in your eyes, in your talk, in everything. If I
were not its owner, you would never come near me."
"Then you will not marry me?"
"No, I cannot. Do you know, Robert, I've become actually jealous of
that breviary, and intend to present it to some library or museum! It
ought, by right, to go to the Metropolitan."
"For God's sake," Hooker cried in mortal anguish, "do anything but
that!"
For over six months the forlorn bibliophile remained away from the Lady
of the Breviary. Somehow or other, it was not the missal which was
foremost in his thoughts. His books, his autographs, his porcelains,
his engravings had no longer the charm they once had. He no longer
took an interest in the auction-sales, and the catalogues that came to
him would lie neglected upon his desk.
He looked with particular distaste upon the "Three Trees" and the
"Unpublishable Memoirs" and the Shakespeare-Bacon volume. He even
thought of returning them to their owners! The great institute to be
founded and called after his name, was a thing of the past! He had
acted like a cad, he said to himself. To marry a woman for an old book
was almost as bad as marrying for money!
One evening, Hooker came to the conclusion that he could not stand this
loneliness, this desolation, any longer. He intended to leave the
country, to wander in foreign lands! He would call again upon Miss
Blaythwaite for the last time, but would she receive him?
His heart was beating rapidly when the maid told him she was in, and
would see him.
And there was Jack Worthing with her, looking big and manly, and
courageous as ever!
Miss Blaythwaite seemed delighted to see him. A sudden joy seemed to
overspread her features! And Hooker noticed things about her he had
never noticed before. He saw the appealing dimples in her cheeks--the
fine hair blowing near the temples--the exquisite shape of her
ears--the wonderful turquoise-blue of her eyes!
And Jack Worthing was talking of books! A miracle had happened!
Somehow or other, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to take a decided interest in
the library left her by her father, and during the last half of the
year, she was continually speaking to Worthing of first editions and
Caxtons; of Elzevirs and typography; of Americana, incunabula and such
ridiculous things, and all in a jargon that was quite unintelligible to
him. And Worthing determined to study the things she liked, and
borrowed some reference-books from a library that told of the mysteries
of the book-lovers' cult. And when Hooker heard Worthing speak of the
rare first edition of Poe's Tamerlane, he almost fainted with surprise!
"Don't you want to look over father's books, Mr. Hooker," asked Miss
Blaythwaite. "You may go in the library as usual, and make yourself at
home. I have added a few things myself!"
"No, thank you, I'd rather remain here. Which side do you think will
win the polo match to-morrow? Meadowbrook?"
At this, Miss Blaythwaite and Worthing looked at each other in
astonishment. Hooker thought he saw a mysterious understanding between
them. He became at once insanely jealous of the athletic young man who
was discoursing so eloquently of Tamerlane "in boards, uncut."
"Meadowbrook?" persisted Hooker.
"I suppose so," returned Worthing, in an uninterested manner.
Yes, this talk of books had become decidedly distasteful to the once
enthusiastic bibliophile.
"By the way, Mr. Hooker," said Miss Blaythwaite, "I've made up my mind
about the Abelard missal. Jack and I think it would be a good thing to
give it to the Metropolitan Museum."
"I quite agree with you, Miss Blaythwaite," said poor Hooker. "There
it would always be safe from fire, and could be seen by the public. It
is certainly the proper thing to do."
At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed overjoyed.
When Worthing left, after an interminable time, Robert Hooker sat by
her side upon the old Chippendale sofa in her father's library. When
she discoursed of books and learning, he would quietly change the
subject.
He wanted to hear about herself, and what she had been doing since he
saw her last. As for himself--he was going away. He was taking a
steamer next Saturday for Europe.
She asked him quietly if he did not want to take a last look at the
breviary.
"Damn the breviary!" he said to himself. He did not care particularly
about it, but she insisted.
He took the precious volume from its place on the shelf, and together
they looked at the marvelous illustrations that traced so vividly the
history of the two devoted lovers.
They glanced not at the calendar, or the litany that came first in the
breviary, but bent their heads over the lovely miniatures that narrated
so touchingly the tragic story.
When they came to the picture showing the final parting of Abelard from
his beloved Heloise, Hooker looked at Miss Blaythwaite.
Her eyes were filled with tears.
"Robert," she said tenderly, "I'm not going to present it to the
Metropolitan. I'll give it to the Hooker Museum! Then--we _both_ can
always enjoy it."
THE EVASIVE PAMPHLET
He was disappointed again!
He sat alone in his office thinking of the auction sale of the day
before. A copy of the rare first edition of "The Murders in the Rue
Morgue," the immortal story of Edgar Allan Poe, was lost to him and his
heirs for ever more.
He had gone to the auction with the virtuous intention of buying it;
when the shabby little pamphlet with its brown paper wrappings--printed
in Philadelphia in 1843--was offered, the bidding was remarkably
spirited. It was finally sold to a distinguished collector for
thirty-eight hundred dollars. He had been the underbidder, but what
chance had a poor devil of a bibliophile against the wealthy captains
of industry? At sales of this character the race is not to the swift,
but to the--rich!
Robert Hooker had once owned a copy of this precious volume. This made
his disappointment the keener. It was a more interesting example than
the one that had just been offered under the hammer of the auctioneer,
for it had been a presentation copy with a simple though beautiful
inscription written in the delicate handwriting of the poet upon the
title-page:
"_To Virginia from E. A. P._"
This was the very copy the greatest of story-tellers had lovingly given
to his wife. Years ago it had mysteriously disappeared from Hooker's
office, where he had kept it in a fire-proof, feeling it was more
secure there than on the shelves of his library. He sought for it
everywhere, offering large rewards for its return, but the evasive
little volume never was heard of again.
Hooker was musing over his "defeat" of yesterday in the salesroom when
his thoughts reverted to the fate of his own copy. Where was it? What
was its history? Its possessor could not seek a purchaser, because the
inscription on the title-page would instantly identify it. Had it been
destroyed? Was it--
"A gentleman to see you, sir, about an old book!"
He instantly awoke from his reverie. It was his secretary who had
spoken.
"Tell him I have no money for such things!" said Hooker.
John Lawrence, his secretary, did not turn away, but waited with the
flicker of a smile upon his face. He knew the foibles of his employer.
He had been with him for many years. And a really good clerk always
knows his master's weaknesses.
"Hold on a minute, John. Perhaps I can give him a few minutes. Tell
him to come in."
"Hello, Colonel! What can I do for you this morning?" said Hooker
cheerily, to a middle-aged man, erect of figure, who had just entered.
He was one of those men who make their living picking up old books, old
guns, old papers, old coins, old pictures, old everything. He also, at
times, had a faculty of picking up old liquors, which was not good for
him. He was known as the "Colonel" because of his military bearing and
his interest in the Civil War. He had really been a soldier serving in
the glorious and extensive regiment known as the home guard.
"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I've a matter I'd like to speak to you
about--but in the strictest confidence. I'm on the track of a really
fine book."
At this Hooker smiled. Although in his long and busy life and in his
strange wanderings the Colonel had secured a few good things his
"finds" generally turned out to be of no value. Hooker had frequently
advanced him money to purchase what the Colonel termed "nuggets," but
when they were brought to him changed, in the twinkling of an eye, into
fool's gold.
"Well, what is it?" said Hooker, rather impatiently, fearing another
tug at his purse-strings.
"You've read this morning's papers? The 'Murders in the Rue Morgue'
brought at the sale yesterday thirty-eight hundred dol--"
"Enough of that!" retorted Hooker, who was becoming angry. "I never
want to hear of that damned book again!"
"But I know where there's another copy," presented the Colonel, weakly.
"So do I. In the British Museum!"
"No, Mr. Hooker. Right here in New York."
"Where?"
"But you're not interested, you just said--"
"Of course I am, you old fool, go on!"
"Well, the book's in an old house down near Washington Square. It'll
be difficult to get. Its owner's in jail."
"In _jail_!"
"Yes. He's serving a stretch--twenty years."
"What for?"
"Murder!"
"Now, Colonel, I hope you didn't come here to amuse me with fairy
tales. I'm very busy this morning."
"No. That's straight. He's up for twenty years. He murdered his
sweetheart. The court brought in a verdict of manslaughter, so he got
a light sentence."
"Well, what's that got to do with the book?"
"Have patience, Mr. Hooker. You know of the Tomlinson case?"
"Never heard of it."
"Impossible, sir! The newspapers were filled with it at the time.
Seven years ago every one was talking about it and surely you
remember--"
"No, Colonel, seven years ago I was in Europe. Tell me about it."
The Colonel went into details--
In June of 1907 a family by the name of Clarke moved into two rooms in
a large, old fashioned residence on Eighth Street, near Fifth Avenue.
They were there for less than a month when they gave the landlord
notice. They could not remain in the house on account of ghosts! Now
_everyone_ believes in ghosts but landlords. It injures their business.
The Clarkes contended that every night in the front room the most
mysterious noises were heard; they called in the janitor, but he knew
nothing. The strange sounds continued; they were uncanny,
inexplicable. The Clarkes moved out and they were succeeded by other
nervous and hysterical persons. The landlord in desperation reduced
the rent, but still the tenants would not remain.
At last even he, who was sceptical and would not believe in hobgoblins,
or ghosts, or spirits, or any of those fantastic creatures that exist
outside the material mind, resolved to investigate for himself. He
literally camped in the rooms for months and heard not a sound! Every
night he determined would be his last and that he would not waste any
more of his valuable time over the mystical phantoms of his foolish
tenants.
One evening, which he resolved was to be the final one, while he was
playing solitaire to pass the tedium of the vigil, he heard a noise in
the wall. He turned pale with fear. A cold chill ran up and down his
back. A moment later the sound of a falling coin reached his ears and
there rolled toward him from the old Georgian fire-place a shining
object.
It was a few minutes before he had the courage to pick it up. It was a
small gold ring. He examined it carefully and engraved therein were
the initials "M. P. from J. L." He put the ring in his pocket, removed
the fire dogs, the tongs, the coal-scuttle and the whole paraphernalia
of fire-places and looked up the flue. He could see nothing. Although
it was a clear night he could not see the stars. Something was in the
way....