WHAT THE GARGOYLE MIGHT TELL
Frank Morrow was the type of man any girl might be glad to claim as a
friend. He had passed his sixty-fifth birthday and for thirty-five years
he had been a dealer in old books, yet he was neither stooped nor
near-sighted. A man of broad shoulders and robust frame, he delighted as
much in a low morning score at golf as he did in the discovery of a rare
old book. His hair was white but his cheeks retained much of their ruddy
glow. His quiet smile gave to all who visited his shop a feeling of
genuine welcome which they did not soon forget.
His shop, like himself, reflected the new era which has dawned in the old
book business. Men have come to realize that age lends worth to books
that possessed real worth in the beginning and they are coming to house
them well. On one of the upper floors of a modern business block Frank
Morrow's shop was flooded with sunshine and fresh air. A potted plant
bloomed on his desk. The books, arranged neatly without a painful effort
at order, presented the appearance of some rich gentleman's library. A
darker corner, a room by itself, to the right and back, suggested privacy
and seclusion and here Frank Morrow's finds were kept. Many of them were
richly bound and autographed.
The wise and the rich of the world passed through Frank Morrow's shop,
for in his brain there rested knowledge which no other living man could
impart. Did a bishop wish to purchase an out-of-print book for his
ecclesiastical library, he came to Frank Morrow to ask where it might be
found. Did the prince of the steel market wish a folio edition of
Audubon's "Birds of America"? He came to Frank and somewhere, in Boston,
New York, Philadelphia, Frank found it for him. Authors came to him and
artists as well, not so much for what he could find for them as for what
he might impart in the way of genial friendship and the lore of books.
It was to this man and this shop that Lucile made her way next morning.
She was not prepared to confide in him to the extent of telling him the
whole story of her mystery, for she did not know him well. He was her
father's friend, that was all. She did wish to tell him that she was in
trouble and to ask his opinion of the probable value of the set of
Shakespeare which had been removed from the university library.
"Well, now," he smiled as he adjusted his glasses after she had asked her
question, "I'll be glad to help you if I can, but I'm not sure that I
can. There are Shakespeares and other Shakespeares. I don't know the
university set--didn't buy it for them. Probably a donation from some rich
man. It might be a folio edition. In that case--well"--he paused and smiled
again--"I trust you haven't burned this Shakespeare by mistake nor had it
stolen from your room or anything like that?"
"No! Oh, no! Not--nothing like that!" exclaimed Lucile.
"Well, as I was about to say, I found a very nice folio edition for a
rich friend of mine not so very long ago. The sale of it I think was the
record for this city. It cost him eighteen thousand dollars."
Lucile gasped, then sat staring at him in astonishment.
"Eighteen thousand dollars!" she managed to murmur at last.
"Of course you understand that was a folio edition, very rare. There are
other old editions that are cheaper, much cheaper."
"I--I hope so," murmured Lucile.
"Would you like to see some old books and get a notion of their value?"
he asked.
"Indeed I would."
"Step in here." He led the way into the mysterious dark room. There he
switched on a light to reveal walls packed with books.
"Here's a little thing," he smiled, taking down a volume which would fit
comfortably into a man's coat pocket; "Walton's Compleat Angler. It's a
first edition. Bound in temporary binding, vellum. What would you say it
was worth?"
"I--I couldn't guess. Please don't make me," Lucile pleaded.
"Sixteen hundred dollars."
Again Lucile stared at him in astonishment. "That little book!"
"You see," he said, motioning her a seat, "rare books, like many other
rare things, derive their value from their scarcity. The first edition of
this book was very small. Being small and comparatively cheap, the larger
number of the books were worn out, destroyed or lost. So the remaining
books have come to possess great value. The story--"
He came to an abrupt pause, arrested by a look of astonishment on the
girl's face, as she gazed at the book he held.
"Why, what--" he began.
"That," Lucile pointed to a raised monogram in the upper inside cover of
the book.
"A private mark," explained Morrow. "Many rich men and men of noble birth
in the past had private marks which they put in their books. The custom
seems to be as old as books themselves. Men do it still. Let's see, what
is that one?"
"An embossed 'L' around two sides of the picture of a gargoyle," said
Lucile in as steady a tone as she could command.
"Ah! yes, a very unusual one. In all my experience I have seen but five
books with that mark in them. All have passed through my hands during the
past two years. And yet this mark is a very old one. See how yellow the
paper is. Probably some foreign library. Many rare books came across the
sea during the war. I believe--"
He paused to reflect, then said with a tone of certainty, "Yes, I know
that mark was in the folio edition of Shakespeare which I sold last
year."
His words caught Lucile's breath. For the moment she could neither move
nor speak. The thought that the set of Shakespeare taken from the library
might be the very set sold to the rich man, and worth eighteen thousand
dollars, struck her dumb.
Fortunately the dealer did not notice her distress but pointing to the
bookmark went on: "If that gargoyle could talk now, if it could tell its
story and the story of the book it marks, what a yarn it might spin.
"For instance," his eyes half closed as the theme gripped him, "this mark
is unmistakably continental--French or German. French, I'd say, from the
form of the 'L' and the type of gargoyle. Many men of wealth and of noble
birth on the continent have had large collections of books printed in
English. This little book with the gargoyle on the inside of its cover is
a hundred years old. It's a young book as ancient books go, yet what
things have happened in its day. It has seen wars and bloodshed. The
library in which it has reposed may have been the plotting place of
kings, knights and dukes or of rebels and regicides.
"It may have witnessed domestic tragedies. What great man may have
contemplated the destruction of his wife? What noble lady may have
whispered in its presence of some secret love? What youths and maids may
have slipped away into its quiet corner to utter murmurs of eternal
devotion?
"It may have been stolen, been carried away as booty in war, been pawned
with its mates to secure a nobleman's ransom.
"Oh, I tell you," he smiled as he read the interest in her face, "there
is romance in old books, thrilling romance. Whole libraries have been
stolen and secretly disposed of. Chests of books have been captured by
pirates.
"Here is a book, a copy of Marco Polo's travels, a first edition copy
which, tradition tells us, was once owned by the renowned pirate, Captain
Kidd. I am told he was fond of reading. However that may be, there
certainly were men of learning among his crew. There never was a
successful gang of thieves that did not have at least one college man in
it."
He chuckled at his own witticism and Lucile smiled with him.
"Well," he said rising, "if there is anything I can do for you at any
time, drop in and ask me. I am always at the service of fair young
ladies. One never grows too old for that; besides, your father was my
very good friend."
Lucile thanked him, took a last look at the pocket volume worth sixteen
hundred dollars, made a mental note of the form of its gargoyle, then
handed it to him and left the room. She little dreamed how soon and under
what strange circumstances she would see that book again.
She left the shop of Frank Morrow in a strange state of mind. She felt
that she should turn the facts in her possession over to the officials of
the library and allow them to deal with the child and the old man. Yet
there was something mysterious about it all. That collector of books,
doubtless worth a fortune, in surroundings which betokened poverty, the
strange book mark, the look on the old man's face as he fingered the
volume of Shakespeare, how explain all these? If the university
authorities or the police handled the case, would they take time to solve
these mysteries, to handle the case in such a way as would not hasten the
death of this feeble old man nor blight the future of this strange child?
She feared not.
"Life, the life of a child, is of greater importance than is an ancient
volume," she told herself at last. "And with the help of Florence and
perhaps of Frank Morrow I will solve the mystery myself. Yes, even if it
costs me my position and my hope for an education!" She paused to stamp
the pavement, then hurried away toward the university.