"I am positive," said Hooker, "because I wrote it myself!"
There was an uproar in the Court.
"Please explain, sir," said the judge sternly.
"DePuyster had become such a pest, such a terror to his friends by his family anecdotes and antique stories that I could stand it no longer. I was literally bored to death. I made the charge in jest. DePuyster took it so seriously that I was compelled to supply the proof. I purchased an old sheet of writing paper with the water-mark of the Revolutionary period. I practised for hours, so I could imitate General Arnold's handwriting. When I finished the letter I almost thought it an original myself! The farce was wonderful! The hoax—a joy! I thought that I had become a Good Samaritan who had saved his friends from a very tiresome old gentleman with a hobby for family history. When my name was first called—I hesitated, but when you all selected me, I was overwhelmed with the distinguished honor. I told the truth, and spoiled a story."
"You have created a story!" said the judge.
"THE HUNDRED AND FIRST STORY"
The owner did not at the time of the robbery suspect anyone. The volume had disappeared; that was all. Yesterday the famous copy of Boccaccio printed by Valdarfer in the year of grace 1471 had been one of the talked-of things in John Libro's famous library. It had reposed in its case along with its ancient companions, who in the silence of the night would relate to one another the right merry tales of Fair Jehan, of Patient Grissel, of Launcelot du Lac; and their morocco sides would shake with laughter at the quips of Giovanni Boccaccio, of Certaldo, and the rude, trenchant jests of Master Francis Rabelais. The fine old volume, which had been the envy and despair of book-lovers, had only recently been added to the collection of Mr. Libro. In 1812 it had the proud record of selling for over £2000 and since then it had a most splendid career, having been fondled and loved by only the elite of the bibliomaniac world. Its owners had been knights, viscounts, dukes, kings, emperors,—and bibliophiles!
On the night of December 12, 1910, the "Valdarfer Boccaccio," as it had been termed, had been shown to a number of members of the "Maioli Club," a club consisting only of those interested in rare prints, books, typography, early manuscripts, and money. The volume, after having been sufficiently admired, handled, looked into, collated and gossiped over, was locked in its case by Mr. Libro, who felt a feeling of relief when the doors were shut and the key stored safely in his pocket. He did not like the rude way some of the younger and inexperienced members handled the precious gift of the gods; and a very thoughtful and scholarly collector had the audacity and unheard of temerity to read it!
The next morning on going into the library all Mr. Libro saw was a vacancy in his favorite bookcase. Between the Dante of 1481 and the Aldine "Poliphilus" was an oblong space that had been so gloriously filled by the distinguished production of the press of Italy. The Boccaccio had vanished!