by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER VI "ONE CAN NEVER TELL"
When Lucile awoke in the morning she remembered the occurrence of thenight before as some sort of bad dream. It seemed inconceivable that sheand Florence, a couple of co-eds, should have thrown themselves upon arough-looking woman in the heart of the city on a street with which theywere totally unfamiliar. Had they done this to free a child about whomthey 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 thewindow at the lovely green and the magnificent Gothic architecture spreadout before her. She thought of the wretched alleys and tumble-downtenements which would greet the eye of that mysterious child when sheawoke.
"Anyway," she told herself, "we saved her from something even worse, I dobelieve. We sent her back to her little old tottering man. I do think sheloves him, though who he is, her grandfather or what, I haven't thefaintest notion.
"Anyway I'm glad we did it," she said.
"Did what?" panted Florence, who by this time was going through hermorning exercises.
"Saved the child."
"Yes, so am I."
The papier-mache lunch box remained in its place in the dark corner whenthey went to breakfast Both girls had completely forgotten it. Had Luciledreamed what it contained she would not have passed it up for a thousandbreakfasts. Since she didn't, she stepped out into the bright morningsunshine, and drinking in deep breaths of God's fresh air, gave thanksthat she was alive.
The day passed as all schooldays pass, with study, lectures, laboratorywork, then dinner as evening comes. In the evening paper an advertisementin 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 heshowed me only yesterday, the little first edition which was worthsixteen 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 ourShakespeare. How strange! It might be--and, yet, one can never tell."
That evening was Lucile's regular period at the library, so, much as sheshould have liked delving more deeply into the mystery which had all buttaken possession of her, she was obliged to bend over a desk checking offbooks.
Working with her was Harry Brock, a fellow student. Harry was the kind offellow one speaks of oftenest as a "nice boy." Clean, clear-cut,carefully dressed, studious, energetic and accurate, he set an examplewhich was hard to follow. He had taken a brotherly interest in Lucilefrom the start and had helped her over many hard places in the libraryuntil she learned her duties.
Shortly after she had come in he paused by her desk and said in a quiettone:
"Do you know, I'm worried about the disappearance of that set ofShakespeare. Sort of gives our section a long black mark. Can't see whereit's disappeared to."
Lucile drew in a long breath. What was he driving at? Did he suspect? Didhe--
"If I wasn't so sure our records were perfect," he broke in on her mentalquestioning, "I'd say it was tucked away somewhere and would turn up. Butwe'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 heknew had stolen something?"
Lucile started. What did he mean? Did he suspect something? Had heperhaps seen her enter the library on one of those nights of herwatching? Did he suspect her? For a second the color rushed flaming toher cheeks. But, fortunately, he was looking away. The next second shewas her usual calm self.
"Why, yes," she said steadily, "I think one might, if one felt that therewere circumstances about the apparent theft which were not clearlyunderstood.
"You know," she said as a sudden inspiration seized her, "we've justfinished reading Victor Hugo's story of Jean Valjean in French.Translating a great story a little each day, bit by bit, is such awonderful way of doing it. And that is the greatest story that ever waswritten. Have you read it?"
He nodded.
"Well, then you remember how that poor fellow stole a loaf of bread tofeed his sister's hungry children and how, without trying to find outabout things and be just, they put him in prison. Then, because he triedto get out, they kept him there years and years. Then when they at lastlet him out, in spite of it all, after he had come into contact with abeautiful, unselfish old man, he became one of the most wonderfulcharacters the world may hope to know. Just think how wonderful hisearlier years, wasted in prison, might have been if someone had onlytried a little to understand."
"You're good," smiled Harry. "When I get arrested I'll have you for mylawyer."
Lucile, once more quite herself, laughed heartily. Then she suddenlysobered.
"If I were you," she said in a low tone, "I shouldn't worry too muchabout that set of Shakespeare. Someway I have an idea that it will showup in its own good time."
Harry shot her a quick look, then as he turned to walk away, said in atone 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 strangechild lived. A light shone out of the window with the torn shade as theyloitered 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 whisperedas the child passed them.
"She's making for the elevated station this time," said Florence as theyhurried along after her. "That means a long trip and you are tired. Whydon'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 wasno 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 nothingat 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 homeand get a good night's sleep."
They parted hurriedly at the station. Florence swung onto the trainboarded by the child, a train which she knew would carry her to the northside, directly away from the university.
"Probably be morning before I get in," she grumbled to herself. "What awild chase!"
Yet, as she stole a glance now and then at the child, who, allunconscious of her scrutiny, sat curled up in the corner of a near-byseat, she felt that, after all, she was worth the effort being made forher.
"Whosoever saveth a soul from destruction," she whispered to herself asthe train rattled on over the river on its way north.
In the meantime Lucile had boarded a south-bound car. She was not alittle troubled by the thought of those footsteps behind them on thesidewalk. She knew it was not her nerves.
"Someon
e _was_ following us!" she whispered to herself. "I wonder who andwhy."
She puzzled over it all the way home; was puzzling over it still when sheleft her car at the university.
Somewhat to her surprise she saw Harry Brock leave the same train. Heappeared almost to be avoiding her but when she called to him he turnedabout and smiled.
"So glad to have someone to walk those five lonely blocks with," shesmiled.
"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. "Ourfriendship's had too much of the ordinary in it for that. I wonder whatis the matter with him."
Conversation on the way to the university grounds rambled along overcommonplaces. Each studiously avoided any reference to the mystery of themissing 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 hasalways been so frank and fine. I wonder if he suspects--but, no, how couldhe?"
As she hung her wrap in the corner of her room, her eye fell upon thepapier-mache lunch box. Her hand half reached for it, then she drew itback 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 herpal, and in that dream she saw her rattling on and on and on foreverthrough the night.