“At what hour did you say I should come, Saturday?”
“Oh, come with the lark for all I care,” said Linda. “Early morning in the desert is a mystery and a miracle, and the larks have been there just long enough to get their voices properly tuned for their purest notes.”
Then she turned and hurried away. Her first leisure minute after reaching home she went to the library wearing one of Katy’s big aprons, and carrying a brush and duster. Beginning at one end of each shelf, she took down the volumes she intended to sell, carefully dusted them, wiped their covers, and the place on which they had stood, and then opened and leafed through them so that no scrap of paper containing any notes or memoranda of possible value should be overlooked. It was while handling these volumes that Linda shifted several of the books written by her father, to separate them from those with which she meant to part. She had grown so accustomed to opening each book she handled and looking through it, that she mechanically opened the first one she picked up and from among its leaves there fell a scrap of loose paper. She picked it up and found it was a letter from the publishers of the book. Linda’s eyes widened suddenly as she read:
My dear Strong:
Sending you a line of congratulations. You have gone to the head of the list of “best sellers” among medical works, and the cheque I draw you for the past six months’ royalties will be considerably larger than that which goes to your most esteemed contemporary on your chosen subject.
Very truly yours,
The signature was that of Frederic Dickman, the editor of one of the biggest publishing houses of the country.
“Hm,” she said to herself softly. “Now that is a queer thing. That letter was written nearly five years ago. I don’t know why I never thought of royalties since Daddy went. I frequently heard him mention them before. I suppose they’re being paid to John Gilman as administrator, or to the Consolidated Bank, and cared for with Father’s other business. There’s no reason why these books should not keep on selling. There are probably the same number of young men, if not a greater number, studying medicine every year. I wonder now, about these royalties. I must do some thinking.”
Then Linda began to examine books more carefully than before. The letter she carried with her when she went to her room; but she made a point of being on the lawn that evening when John Gilman came, and after talking to him a few minutes, she said very casually: “John, as Father’s administrator, does a royalty from his medical books come to you?”
“No,” said Gilman. “It is paid to his bank.”
“I don’t suppose,” said Linda casually, “it would amount to enough to keep one in shoes these inflated days.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said John testily. “I have seen a few of those cheques in your Father’s time. You should be able to keep fairly well supplied with shoes.”