The Secret Mark

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER X MYSTERIES OF THE SEA

  The trail over which the mystery child led them that night revealednothing. Indeed, she eluded them, escaping the moment she left theelevated train at a down town station.

  "Nothing to do but go home," said Florence in a disappointed tone.

  "Oh, well, cheer up," smiled Lucile. "We've had a new chapter added toour mystery, as well as a whole new character who promises to becomeinteresting. But look, Florence," she whispered suddenly. "No, don'tstare, just glance down toward the end of the platform. See that man?"

  "The one with his collar turned up and with his back to us?"

  "Yes."

  "That's the man who passed us when we were on our way to the mysterycottage."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Can't be mistaken. Same coat, same hat, same everything."

  "Why then--"

  Florence checked herself. A moment later she said in a quiet tone ofvoice:

  "Lucile, don't you think it's about time we waded ashore? Came clear andgot out of this affair; turned facts over to the authorities and allowedthem to take their course?"

  Lucile was silent for a moment. Then suddenly she shivered all over andwhispered tensely:

  "No--no, not quite yet."

  "We may get in over our necks."

  "I can swim. Can't you?"

  "I'll try," Florence laughed, and there for the time the matter ended.

  Lucile worked in the library two hours the next day. One fact could notescape her attention. Harry Brock had been losing a lot of sleep. She sawhim rubbing his eyes from time to time and once he actually nodded overhis records.

  "Been studying late?" she asked in friendly sympathy.

  He shot her a quick, penetrating glance, then, seeming to catch himself,said, "Oh, yes, quite a bit."

  That afternoon, finding study difficult and being in need of a theme fora special article to be written for English 5b, she decided to use hercard of admittance to the bindery and glean the material for the themefrom that institution.

  She could scarcely have chosen a more fitting subject, for there are fewplaces more interesting than a famous book bindery. Unfortunately,something occurred while she was there that quite drove all the thoughtsof her theme out of her head and added to her already over-burdenedshoulders an increased weight of responsibility.

  A famous bindery is a place of many wonders. The stitching machines, thelittle and great presses, the glowing fires that heat irons for thestamping, all these and many more lend an air of industry, mystery andfine endeavor to the place.

  Not in the general bindery, where thousands of books are bound each day,did Lucile find her chief interest, however. It was when she had beenshown into a small side room, into which the natural sunlight shonethrough a broad window, that she realized that she had reached the heartof the place.

  "This," said the young man attending her, "is the hand bindery. Few booksare bound here; sometimes not more than six a year, but they arehandsomely, wonderfully bound. Mr. Kirkland, the head of this department,will tell you all about it. I hear my autophone call. I will come for youa little later."

  Lucile was not sorry to be left alone in such a room. It was a place ofrare enchantment. Seated at their benches, bending over their work, withtheir blue fires burning before them, were three skilled workmen. Theywere more than workmen; they were artists. The work turned out by themrivaled in beauty and perfection the canvas of the most skilled painter.They wrought in inlaid leather and gold; the artist in crayon and oils.The artist uses palette, knife and brush; their steel tools werefashioned to suit their art.

  Ranged along one side of the room was a long rack in which these toolswere kept. There were hundreds of them, and each tool had its place.Every now and again from the benches there came a hot sizzling sound,which meant that one of these tools was being tested after having beenheated over the flame.

  Seeing her looking at the rack of tools, the head workman, abroad-shouldered man with a pleasant smile and keen blue eyes, turnedtoward her.

  "Would you like to have me tell you a little about them?" he asked.

  "Indeed I should."

  "Those tools once belonged to Hans Wiemar, the most famous man ever knownto the craft. After he died I bought them from his widow. He once spentthree years binding a single book. It was to be presented to the king ofEngland. He was a very skillful artisan.

  "We bind some pretty fine books here, too," he said modestly. "Here isone I am only just beginning. You see it is a very large book, a book ofpoetry printed in the original German. I shall be at least two monthsdoing it.

  "The last one I had was much smaller but it was to have taken me fourmonths."

  A shadow passed over his face.

  "Did--did you finish it?" asked Lucile, a tone of instinctive sympathy inher voice.

  "It was an ancient French book, done in the oldest French type. It wascalled 'Mysteries of the Sea,'" he went on without answering herquestion. "This was the tool we used most on it," he said, holding outthe edge of a steel tool for her inspection. "You see, the metal isheated and pressed into the leather in just the right way, then gold,twenty-two carat gold, is pressed into the creases that are left and wehave a figure in gold as a result. This one you see is in the form of anancient sailing ship."

  Lucile started, then examined the tool more carefully.

  "Here is another tool we used. It represents clouds. This one makes thewater. You see we use appropriate tools. The book was about ships and thesea, written before the time of Columbus."

  He was silent for a moment, then said slowly, a look of pain coming intohis fine face, "I suppose I might as well tell you. The book was stolen,stolen from my bench during the lunch hour."

  Lucile started violently.

  The artist stared at her for a second, then went on.

  "Of course, I can't be held responsible, yet no doubt they blame me in away. The book was very valuable--worth thousands of dollars. And it wouldhave been finished in two days." He bowed his head as if in silent grief.

  "Please," Lucile's lips quivered with emotion as she spoke, "did the bookhave three of these ancient ship designs on the back of it, one large andtwo small?"

  "Yes."

  "And was it done in dark red leather with the decorations all in gold?"

  "Yes, yes!" the man's tones were eager.

  "And, and," Lucile whispered the words, "was there a bookmark in theupper corner of the inside of the front cover?"

  "Yes, yes, yes!" He uttered the words in a tense whisper. "How can youknow so much about the book?"

  "Please," pleaded Lucile, "I can't tell you now. But per--perhaps I canhelp you."

  "I will take you to our president, to Mr. Silver."

  "Please--please--no--not now. Please let me go now. I must think. I willcome back--truly--truly I will."

  With the instinct of a born gentleman he escorted her to a side door andlet her out.

  The sunshine, as she emerged, seemed unreal to her. Everything seemedunreal.

  "The gargoyle! The gargoyle!" she whispered hoarsely. "Can I never escapeit? Can I go no place without discovering that books marked with thathated, haunting sign have been stolen? That book, the hand-bound copy of'Mysteries of the Sea,' is the latest acquirement of the old man in themystery cottage on Tyler street. She stole it; the child stole it. Andwhy? Why? It seems that I should tell all that I know," she whispered toherself, "that it is my duty. Surely the thing can't go on." She bathedher flushed cheeks in the outer air.

  "And yet," she thought more calmly, "there are the old man, the child.There _is_ something back of it all. The gargoyle's secret. Oh! if onlyone knew!"