As a last resort Bunting was compelled to investigate the members of the Maioli Club. Although they were book-lovers the detective found, much to his surprise, that they were respectable citizens. He called one day upon Mr. Hooker without giving notice of his visit.
"Mr. Hooker," he said, "I would like to know about the book missing from the Libro collection. Do you know where it is?"
Mr. Hooker seemed to be choking. His face grew red and he could not answer for the moment. Bunting repeated the question and Hooker grew angry.
"How dare you ask me such a thing? You are so accustomed to dealing with thieves that you try your crude methods on everyone. The book will turn up sometime; meanwhile myself and all my friends will be continually annoyed by your insults and threats. Good-day."
The detective left. He felt sure that Hooker knew more than he cared to admit. Perhaps the book was even now upon his shelves. He would have his house and office searched. This was done. The Boccaccio was nowhere to be seen.
Two years passed. The Valdarfer Boccaccio, which had been a day's wonder, was forgotten by all except Mr. Libro and Mr. Hooker. They saw each other rarely after the loss of the unlucky volume; in fact they avoided each other. The incident was never mentioned among the members of the Maioli Club—it was a thing never to be spoken of at its meetings.
It was, however, again to be the subject of talk and gossip. On December 12, 1912, two years to a day after its strange disappearance, the volume turned up in all the glory of its illuminated page and superb morocco binding. Giovanni Boccaccio had added another story to the Hundred that composed his immortal collection.
And where had it been found? The last place in the entire world. In the New York Public Library! For almost two years it had reposed there, with no one to cherish it or dip into its witty contents. In a book-case, side by side with other great masterpieces of literature, it had remained neglected by the inhabitants of New York, who in the newspapers of that great city figure as learned and scholarly! The old story, "that the best place to hide a book was in a Wall Street broker's office" was found to be pleasant but fanciful fiction! It was far safer in the public library: no one would look for it there!
On the morning of the twelfth of December a gentleman came to the Inquiry Desk. He appeared to Mr. Jones, one of the assistant librarians, to be interested in books on the subject of Religion, so he requested the visitor to go with him to the book-stacks, as there were too many of them to carry to the reading tables. And theological books were always so heavy! While looking over the collection the man called Mr. Jones' attention to the label of John Libro in one of them, and asked why the "Decameron" of Boccaccio was put among the religious books? Mr. Jones blushed! He gasped, however, when he recognized the long-lost volume. He would take it at once to the principal librarian. He first asked the stranger's name,—the fortunate discoverer of the missing treasure. He gave Mr. Jones his card. Engraved thereon was "B. Phillips."
The newspapers were full of the curious recovery of the Boccaccio, were quite facetious about it and went so far as to call the great building on Fifth Avenue a Literary Mausoleum. Others suggested that the State should appropriate money for the purchase of modern sex novels,—the only books that were really read! But despite the jibes and explanations the real mystery was unsolved. How was the book stolen and why?