"THAT WAS THE MAN"
Dan Whitner was a somewhat shabby likeness of Roderick Vining; that is,
he was a gray-haired, stoop-shouldered, young-old man who knew a great
deal about books. His shelves were dusty, so too was a mouse-colored
jacket.
Yes, he "remembered the book quite well." Lucile began to get the notion
that once one of these book wizards set eyes upon an ancient volume he
never forgot it.
"Strange case, that," smiled Dan as he looked at her over his glasses.
"Ah! Here is where I learn something of real importance," was the girl's
mental comment.
"You see," Dan went on, "I sometimes have dinner with a very good friend
who also loves books--the Reverend Dr. Edward Edwards. Dinner, on such
occasions, is served on a tea-wagon in his library; sort of makes a
fellow feel at home, don't you know?
"Well, one of these evenings when the good doctor had an exceptional
roast of mutton and a hubbard squash just in from the farm and a wee bit
of something beside, he had me over. While we waited to be served I was
glancing over his books and chanced to note the book you now have in your
hand. 'I see,' I said to him jokingly, 'that you have come into a
legacy.'
"'Why, no,' he says looking up surprised. 'Why should you think that?'
"I pointed to this little copy of 'The Compleat Angler' and said, 'Only
them as are very rich can afford to possess such as this one.'
"He looked at me in surprise, then smiled as he said, 'I did pay a little
too much for it, I guess, but the print was rather unusual; besides, it's
a great book. I don't mind admitting that it cost me fifteen dollars.'
"'Fifteen dollars!' I exploded.
"'Got trimmed, did I?' he smiled back. 'Well, you know the old saying
about the clergy, no business heads on them, so we'll let it stand at
that.'
"'Trimmed nothing!' I fairly yelled. 'The book's a small fortune in
itself; one of those rare finds. Why--I'd venture to risk six hundred
dollars on it myself without opening the covers of it. It's a first
edition or I'm not a book seller at all.'
"'Sold!' he cried in high glee. 'There are three families in my parish
who are in dire need. This book was sent, no doubt, to assist me in
tiding them over.'
"So that's how I came into possession of the book. I sold it to Vining at
Burtnoe's, as you no doubt know."
"But," exclaimed Lucile breathlessly, feeling that the scent was growing
fresher all the while, "from whom did the doctor purchase it at so
ridiculous a price?"
"From a fool bookstorekeeper of course; one of those upstarts who know
nothing at all about books; who handle them as pure merchandise,
purchased at so much and sold for forty and five per cent more,
regardless of actual value. He'd bought it to help out some ignorant
foreigner, a Spaniard I believe. He'd paid ten dollars and had been
terribly pleased within himself when he made five on the deal."
"Who was he?" Lucile asked eagerly, "and where was his shop?"
"That I didn't trouble to find out. Very likely he's out of business by
now. Such shops are like grass in autumn, soon die down and the snow
covers them up. The doctor could tell you though. I'll give you his
address and you may go and ask him."
The short afternoon was near spent and the shades of night were already
falling when at last Lucile entered the shop of the unfortunate
bookseller who had not realized the value of the little book. Lunch had
delayed her, then the doctor had been out making calls and had kept her
waiting for two hours. The little shop had been hard to find, but here at
last she was.
A pitiful shop it was, possessing but a few hundred volumes and presided
over by a grimy-fingered man who might but the day before have been
promoted from the garbage wagon so far as personal appearance was
concerned. Indeed, as Lucile looked over the place she was seized with
the crazy notion that the whole place, books, shelves and proprietor, had
but recently climbed down from the junk cart.
"And yet," she told herself, "it was from this very heap of dusty paper
and cardboard that this precious bit of literature which I have in my
pocket, was salvaged. I must not forget that.
"I believe," she told herself with an excited intake of breath, "that I
am coming close to the end of my search. All day I have been descending
step by step; first the wonderful Burtnoe's Book Store with all its
magnificence and its genius of a bookman, then Dan Whitner and the
doctor, now this place, and then perhaps, whoever the person is who sold
the book to this pitiful specimen of a bookseller."
Her heart skipped a beat as the bookman, having caught sight of her,
began to amble in her direction.
She made her question short and to the point. "Where did you get this
book?"
"That book?" he took it and turned it over in his hand. He scratched his
head. "That, why that book must have been one I bought with a lot at an
auction sale last week. Want'a buy it?"
"No. No!" exclaimed Lucile, seizing the book. "It's not your book. It is
mine but you had it once and sold it. What I wish to know is, where did
you get it?"
Three customers were thumbing through the books. One seated at a table
turned and looked up. His face impressed the girl at once as being
particularly horrible. Dark featured, hook-nosed, with a blue birthmark
covering half his chin, he inspired her with an almost uncontrollable
fear.
"We--we--" she faltered "--may we not step back under the light where you
can see the book better?"
The shopkeeper followed her in stolid silence.
It was necessary for her to tell him the whole story of the purchase and
sale of the book before he recognized it as having once been on his
shelves.
"Oh, yes," he exclaimed at last. "Made five dollars on her. Thought I had
made a mistake, but didn't; not that time I didn't. Where'd I get her?
Let's see?"
As he stood there attempting to recall the name of the purchaser,
Lucile's gaze strayed to an opening between two rows of books. Instantly
her eyes were caught as a bird's by a serpent, as she found herself
looking into a pair of cruel, crafty, prying eyes. They vanished
instantly but left her with a cold chill running up her spine. It was the
man who had been seated at the table, but why had he been spying? She had
not long to wait before a possible solution was given her.
"I know!" exclaimed the shopkeeper at this instant, "I bought it from a
foreigner. Bought two others from him, too. Made good money on 'em all,
too. Why!" he exclaimed suddenly, "he was in here when you came. Had
another book under his arm, he did; wanted to sell it, I judge. I was
just keeping him waiting a little so's he wouldn't think I wanted it too
bad. If they think you want their books bad they stick for a big price."
His voice had dropped to a whisper; his eyes had narrowed to what was
meant to be a very wise-meaning expression.
"May be here yet." He darted around the stand of books.
"That's him just going out the door. Hey, you!" he shouted after the man.
Paying not the least attention, the person passed out, slamming the door
after him.
Passing rapidly down the room, the proprietor poked his head out of the
door and shouted twice. After listening for a moment he backed into the
room and shut the door.
"Gone," he muttered. "Worse luck to me. Sometimes we wait too long and
sometimes not long enough. Now some other lucky dog will get that book."
In the meantime Lucile had glanced about the shop. Two persons were
reading beneath a lamp in the corner. Neither was the man with the
birthmark. It was natural enough to conclude that it was he who had left
the room.
"Did he have a birthmark on his chin, this man you bought the book from?"
she asked as the proprietor returned.
"Yes, ma'am, he did."
"Then I saw him here a moment ago. When is he likely to return?"
"That no one can tell. Perhaps to-morrow, perhaps never. He has not been
here before in three months. Did you wish to speak with him?"
Lucile shivered. "Well, perhaps not," she half whispered.
"Huh!" grunted the proprietor suddenly, "what's this? Must be the book he
brought. He's forgotten it. Now he is sure to be back."
Lucile was rather of the opinion that he would not soon return. She
believed that there had been some trickery about the affair of these
valuable books which were being sold to the cheapest book dealer in the
city for a very small part of their value. "Perhaps they were stolen,"
she told herself. At once the strangeness of the situation came to her;
here she was with a book in her possession which had been but recently
stolen from Frank Morrow's book shop by a girl and now circumstances
seemed to indicate that this very book had been stolen by some person who
had sold it to this bookmonger, who had passed it on to the doctor who
had sold it to Dan Whitner, who had sold it to Roderick Vining, who had
sold it to Frank Morrow.
"Sounds like the house that Jack built," she whispered to herself. "But
then I suppose some valuable books have been stolen many times. Frank
Morrow said one of his had been stolen twice within a week by totally
different persons."
Turning to the shopkeeper, she asked if she might see the book that had
been left behind.
As she turned back the cover a low exclamation escaped her lips. In the
corner of that cover was the same secret mark as had been in all the
mystery books, the gargoyle and the letter L.
Hiding her surprise as best she could, she handed the book to the man
with the remark:
"Of course you cannot sell the book, since it is not your own?"
"I'd chance it."
"I'll give you ten dollars for it. If he returns and demands more, I will
either pay the price or return the book. I'll give you my address."
"Done!" he exclaimed. "I don't think you'll ever hear from me. I'll give
him seven and he'll be glad enough to get it. Pretty good, eh?" he rubbed
his hands together gleefully. "Three dollars clean profit and not a cent
invested any of the time."
Like the ancient volume on fishing, this newly acquired book was small
and thin, so without examining its contents she thrust it beside the
other in the large pocket of her coat.
"I suppose I oughtn't to have done it," she whispered to herself as she
left the shop, "but if I hadn't, he'd have sold it to the first customer.
It's evidence in the case and besides it may be valuable."
A fog hung over the city. The streets were dark and damp. Here and there
a yellow light struggled to pierce the denseness of the gloom. As she
turned to the right and walked down the street, not knowing for the
moment quite what else to do, she fancied that a shadow darted down the
alley to her left.
"Too dark to tell. Might have been a dog or anything," she murmured. Yet
she shivered and quickened her pace. She was in a great, dark city alone
and she was going--where? That she did not know. The day's adventures had
left her high and dry on the streets of a city as a boat is left by the
tide on the sand.