"ONE CAN NEVER TELL"
When Lucile awoke in the morning she remembered the occurrence of the
night before as some sort of bad dream. It seemed inconceivable that she
and Florence, a couple of co-eds, should have thrown themselves upon a
rough-looking woman in the heart of the city on a street with which they
were totally unfamiliar. Had they done this to free a child about whom
they knew nothing save that she had stolen two valuable books?
"Did we?" she asked sleepily.
"Did we what?" smiled Florence, drawing the comb through her hair.
"Did we rescue that child from that woman?"
"I guess we did."
"Why did we do it?"
"That's what I've been wondering."
Lucile sat up in bed and thought for a moment. She gazed out of the
window at the lovely green and the magnificent Gothic architecture spread
out before her. She thought of the wretched alleys and tumble-down
tenements which would greet the eye of that mysterious child when she
awoke.
"Anyway," she told herself, "we saved her from something even worse, I do
believe. We sent her back to her little old tottering man. I do think she
loves him, though who he is, her grandfather or what, I haven't the
faintest notion.
"Anyway I'm glad we did it," she said.
"Did what?" panted Florence, who by this time was going through her
morning exercises.
"Saved the child."
"Yes, so am I."
The papier-mache lunch box remained in its place in the dark corner when
they went to breakfast Both girls had completely forgotten it. Had Lucile
dreamed what it contained she would not have passed it up for a thousand
breakfasts. Since she didn't, she stepped out into the bright morning
sunshine, and drinking in deep breaths of God's fresh air, gave thanks
that she was alive.
The day passed as all schooldays pass, with study, lectures, laboratory
work, then dinner as evening comes. In the evening paper an advertisement
in the "Lost, Strayed or Stolen" column caught her eye. It read:
"REWARD
"Will pay $100.00 reward for the return of small copy of The Compleat
Angler which disappeared from the Morrow Book Shop on November 3."
It was signed by Frank Morrow.
"Why, that's strange!" she murmured. "I do believe that was the book he
showed me only yesterday, the little first edition which was worth
sixteen hundred dollars. How strange!"
A queer sinking sensation came over her.
"I--I wonder if she could have taken it," she whispered, "that child?
"No, no," she whispered emphatically after a moment's thought. "And, yet,
there was the gargoyle bookmark in the inside cover, the same as in our
Shakespeare. How strange! It might be--and, yet, one can never tell."
That evening was Lucile's regular period at the library, so, much as she
should have liked delving more deeply into the mystery which had all but
taken possession of her, she was obliged to bend over a desk checking off
books.
Working with her was Harry Brock, a fellow student. Harry was the kind of
fellow one speaks of oftenest as a "nice boy." Clean, clear-cut,
carefully dressed, studious, energetic and accurate, he set an example
which was hard to follow. He had taken a brotherly interest in Lucile
from the start and had helped her over many hard places in the library
until she learned her duties.
Shortly after she had come in he paused by her desk and said in a quiet
tone:
"Do you know, I'm worried about the disappearance of that set of
Shakespeare. Sort of gives our section a long black mark. Can't see where
it's disappeared to."
Lucile drew in a long breath. What was he driving at? Did he suspect? Did
he--
"If I wasn't so sure our records were perfect," he broke in on her mental
questioning, "I'd say it was tucked away somewhere and would turn up. But
we've all been careful. It just can't be here."
He paused as if in reflection, then said suddenly:
"Do you think one would ever be justified in protecting a person whom he
knew had stolen something?"
Lucile started. What did he mean? Did he suspect something? Had he
perhaps seen her enter the library on one of those nights of her
watching? Did he suspect her? For a second the color rushed flaming to
her cheeks. But, fortunately, he was looking away. The next second she
was her usual calm self.
"Why, yes," she said steadily, "I think one might, if one felt that there
were circumstances about the apparent theft which were not clearly
understood.
"You know," she said as a sudden inspiration seized her, "we've just
finished reading Victor Hugo's story of Jean Valjean in French.
Translating a great story a little each day, bit by bit, is such a
wonderful way of doing it. And that is the greatest story that ever was
written. Have you read it?"
He nodded.
"Well, then you remember how that poor fellow stole a loaf of bread to
feed his sister's hungry children and how, without trying to find out
about things and be just, they put him in prison. Then, because he tried
to get out, they kept him there years and years. Then when they at last
let him out, in spite of it all, after he had come into contact with a
beautiful, unselfish old man, he became one of the most wonderful
characters the world may hope to know. Just think how wonderful his
earlier years, wasted in prison, might have been if someone had only
tried a little to understand."
"You're good," smiled Harry. "When I get arrested I'll have you for my
lawyer."
Lucile, once more quite herself, laughed heartily. Then she suddenly
sobered.
"If I were you," she said in a low tone, "I shouldn't worry too much
about that set of Shakespeare. Someway I have an idea that it will show
up in its own good time."
Harry shot her a quick look, then as he turned to walk away, said in a
tone of forced lightness:
"Oh! All right."
The following night they were free to return to the scene of the mystery,
the cottage on dreary Tyler street where the old man and the strange
child lived. A light shone out of the window with the torn shade as they
loitered along in front of the place as before. Much to their surprise,
not ten minutes had passed when the child stole forth.
"We were just in time," breathed Florence.
"Dressed just as she was on the first night I saw her," Lucile whispered
as the child passed them.
"She's making for the elevated station this time," said Florence as they
hurried along after her. "That means a long trip and you are tired. Why
don't you let me follow her alone?"
"Why I--"
Lucile cut her speech short to grip her companion's arm.
"Florence," she whispered excitedly, "did you hear a footstep behind us?"
"Why, yes, I--"
Florence hesitated. Lucile broke in:
"There was one. I am sure of it, and just now as I looked about there was
no one in sight. You don't think someone could suspect--be shadowing us?"
"Of course not."
"It might be that woman who tried to carry the child away."
"I think not. That was in another part of the city. Probably just nothing
at all."
"Yes, yes, there it is now. I hear it. Look about quick."
"No one in sight," said Florence. "It's your nerves. You'd better go home
and get a good night's sleep."
They parted hurriedly at the station. Florence swung onto the train
boarded by the child, a train which she knew would carry her to the north
side, directly away from the university.
"Probably be morning before I get in," she grumbled to herself. "What a
wild chase!"
Yet, as she stole a glance now and then at the child, who, all
unconscious of her scrutiny, sat curled up in the corner of a near-by
seat, she felt that, after all, she was worth the effort being made for
her.
"Whosoever saveth a soul from destruction," she whispered to herself as
the train rattled on over the river on its way north.
In the meantime Lucile had boarded a south-bound car. She was not a
little troubled by the thought of those footsteps behind them on the
sidewalk. She knew it was not her nerves.
"Someone _was_ following us!" she whispered to herself. "I wonder who and
why."
She puzzled over it all the way home; was puzzling over it still when she
left her car at the university.
Somewhat to her surprise she saw Harry Brock leave the same train. He
appeared almost to be avoiding her but when she called to him he turned
about and smiled.
"So glad to have someone to walk those five lonely blocks with," she
smiled.
"Pleasure mutual," he murmured, but he seemed ill at ease.
Lucile glanced at him curiously.
"He can't think I've got a crush on him," she told herself. "Our
friendship's had too much of the ordinary in it for that. I wonder what
is the matter with him."
Conversation on the way to the university grounds rambled along over
commonplaces. Each studiously avoided any reference to the mystery of the
missing books.
Lucile was distinctly relieved as he left her at the dormitory door.
"Well," she heaved a sigh, "whatever could have come over him? He has
always been so frank and fine. I wonder if he suspects--but, no, how could
he?"
As she hung her wrap in the corner of her room, her eye fell upon the
papier-mache lunch box. Her hand half reached for it, then she drew it
back and flung herself into a chair.
"To-morrow," she murmured. "I'm so tired."
Fifteen minutes later she was in her bed fast asleep, dreaming of her
pal, and in that dream she saw her rattling on and on and on forever
through the night.