“It’s strange,” she mused, “when you think of it, how many people work while we sleep. Every morning hundreds of thousands of people swarm to their work or their shopping in the heart of the city and they find all the carpets swept, desks and tables dusted, floors and stairs scrubbed, and I’ll bet that not one in a hundred of them ever pauses to wonder how it all comes about. Not one in a thousand gives a passing thought to the poor women who toil on hands and knees with rag and brush during the dark hours of night that everything may be spick and span in the morning. I tell you, Lucile, we ought to be thankful that we’re young and that opportunities lie before us. I tell you—”
She was stopped by a grip on her arm.
“Wha—where has she gone?” stammered Lucille.
“She vanished!”
“And she was not twenty feet before us a second ago.”
The two girls stood staring at each other in astonishment The child had disappeared.
“Well,” said Lucile ruefully, “I guess that about ends this night’s adventure.”
“I guess so,” admitted Florence.
The lights of an all-night drug store burned brightly across the street.
“That calls for hot chocolate,” said Florence. “It’s what I get for moralizing. If I hadn’t been going on at such a rate we would have kept sight of her.”
They lingered for some time over hot chocolate and wafers. They were waiting for a surface car to carry them home when, on hearing low but excited words, they turned about to behold to their vast astonishment their little mystery child being led along by the collar of her dress. The person dragging her forward was an evil looking woman who appeared slightly the worse for drink.
“So that’s the trick,” they heard her snarl. “So you would run away! Such an ungratefulness. After all we done for you. Now you shall beg harder than ever.”
“No, I won’t beg,” the girl answered in a small but determined voice. “And I shan’t steal either. You can kill me first.”
“Well, we’ll see, my fine lady,” growled the woman.
All this time the child was being dragged forward. As she came opposite the two girls, the woman gave a harder tug than before and the girl almost fell. Something dropped to the sidewalk, but the woman did not notice it, and the child evidently did not care, for they passed on.
Lucile stooped and picked it up. It was the paper lunch box they had seen the child carrying earlier in the evening.
“Something in it,” she said, shaking it.
“Lucile,” said Florence in a tense whisper, “are we going to let that beast of a woman get that child? She doesn’t belong to her, or if she does, she oughtn’t to. I’m good for a fight.”
Lucile’s face blanched.
“Here in this city wilderness,” she breathed.
“Anywhere for the good of a child. Come on.”
Florence was away after the woman and child at a rapid rate.
“We’ll get the child free. Then we’ll get out,” breathed Florence. “We don’t want any publicity.”
Fortune favored their plan. The woman, still dragging the child, who was by now silently weeping, hurried into a narrow dismal alley.
Suddenly as she looked about at sound of a footstep behind her, she was seized in two vises and hurled by some mechanism of steel and bronze a dozen feet in air, to land in an alley doorway. At least so it seemed to her, nor was it far from the truth. For Florence’s months of gymnasium work had turned her muscles into things of steel and bronze. It was she who had seized the woman.
It was all done so swiftly that the woman had no time to cry out. When she rose to her feet, the alley was deserted. The child had fled in one direction, while the two girls had stepped quietly out into the street in the other direction and, apparently quite unperturbed, were waiting for a car.
“Look,” said Lucile, “I’ve still got it. It’s the child’s lunch basket. There’s something in it.”
“There’s our car,” said Florence in a relieved tone. The next moment they were rattling homeward.
“We solved no mystery tonight,” murmured Lucile sleepily.
“Added one more to the rest,” smiled Florence. “But now I am interested. We must see it through.”
“Did you hear what the child said, that she’d rather die than steal?”
“Wonder what she calls the taking of our Shakespeare?”
“That’s part of our problem. Continued in our next,” smiled Lucile.
She set the dilapidated papier-mâché lunch box which she had picked up in the street after the child had dropped it, in the corner beneath the cloak rack. Before she fell asleep she thought of it and wondered what had been thumping round inside of it.
“Probably just an old, dried-up sandwich,” she told herself. “Anyway, I’m too weary to get up and look now. I’ll look in the morning.”
One other thought entered her consciousness before she fell asleep. Or was it a thought? Perhaps just one or two mental pictures. The buildings, the street, the electric signs that had encountered her gaze as they first saw the child and the half-drunk woman passed before her mind’s eye. Then, almost instantly, the picture of the street on which the building in which Frank Morrow’s book shop was located flashed before her.
“That’s queer!” she murmured. “I do believe they were the same!”
“And indeed,” she thought dreamily, “why should they not be? They are both down in the heart of the city and I am forever losing my sense of location down there.”
At that she fell asleep.
CHAPTER VI
“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-mâché 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-mâché lunch box. Her hand half reached for it, then she drew it back and flung herself into a chair.
“Tomorrow,” 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.
CHAPTER VII
THE VANISHING PORTLAND CHART
Florence was not rattling on and on through the night as Lucile dreamed. Some two miles from the heart of the city her journey on the elevated came to a halt. The child left the car and went bounding down the steps.
Not many moments passed before Florence realized that her destination was a famous library, the Newburg. Before she knew it the massive structure of gray sandstone loomed up before her. And before she could realize what was happening, the child had darted through the door and lost herself in the labyrinth of halls, stairways and passageways which led to hundreds of rooms where books were stacked or where huge oak tables invited o
ne to pause and read.
“She’s gone!” Florence gasped. “Now how shall I find her?”
Walking with all the speed that proper conduct in such a spacious and dignified hostelry of books would allow, she passed from room to room, from floor to floor, until, footsore and weary, without the least notion of the kind of room she was in or whether she was welcome or not, she at last threw herself into a chair to rest.
“She’s escaped me!” she sighed. “And I promised to keep in touch with her. What a mess! But the child’s a witch. Who could be expected to keep up with her?”
“Are you interested in the exhibit?” It was the well-modulated tone of a trained librarian that interrupted her train of thought. The question startled her.
“The—er—” she stammered. “Why, yes, very much.”
What the exhibit might be she had not the remotest notion.
“Ah, yes,” the lady sighed. “Portland charts are indeed interesting. Perhaps you should like to have me explain some of them to you?”
“Portland charts.” That did sound interesting. It suggested travel. If there was any one thing Florence was interested in, it was travel.
“Why, yes,” she said eagerly, “I would.”
“The most ancient ones,” said the librarian, indicating a glass case, “are here. Here you see one that was made in 1440, some time before Columbus sailed for America. These maps were made for mariners. Certain men took it up as a life work, the making of Portland charts. It is really very wonderful, when you think of it. How old they are, four or five hundred years, yet the coloring is as perfect as if they were done but yesterday.”
Florence listened eagerly. This was indeed interesting.
“You see,” smiled the librarian, “in those days nothing much was known of what is now the new world, but from time to time ships lost at sea drifted about to land at last on strange shores. These they supposed were shores of islands. When they returned they related their experiences and a new island was stuck somewhere on the map. The exact location could not be discovered, so they might make a mistake of a thousand or more miles in locating them, but that didn’t really matter, for no one ever went to them again.”
The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 71