"You must see the picture-gallery to-morrow," he said. "That is the real gem of the place. But as you take such an interest in the Abbey and its antiquities, this book may interest you." He found a key and unlocked a bookcase. "It is a complete history of the Abbey from its foundation to the present time. It has never been published. My brother had it drawn up by a first-rate antiquary. I haven't had time to read it properly yet. Why, how's this? The book is gone."
"Some other guest who takes the same interest in the Abbey that I do," I suggested, "has borrowed the book and forgotten to return it."
"Impossible," Sir Hugh replied. "This bookcase is kept locked, and I always carry the key."
"Was that the only copy of the book?" my uncle asked.
"The only copy. It was in manuscript, but the leaves were bound like an ordinary book. If the book be gone the loss is irreparable."
"When did you see it last?"
"About a month ago, I should say. Its usual place is there, third from the end on the top shelf. Whoever took it away did not wish its removal to be noticed, for he——"
"Or she," I murmured, thinking of Florrie's enthusiasm over the Abbey.
"Or she has filled up the gap with a book identical in colour and binding, so that I thought at first it was the very book. Athanasii Opera," he muttered contemptuously, scanning the title of the substituted volume. "Confound Athanasius."