“‘Trimmed nothing!’ I fairly yelled. ‘The book’s a small fortune in itself; one of those rare finds. Why—I’d venture to risk six hundred dollars on it myself without opening the covers of it. It’s a first edition or I’m not a book seller at all.’
“‘Sold!’ he cried in high glee. ‘There are three families in my parish who are in dire need. This book was sent, no doubt, to assist me in tiding them over.’
“So that’s how I came into possession of the book. I sold it to Vining at Burtnoe’s, as you no doubt know.”
“But,” exclaimed Lucile breathlessly, feeling that the scent was growing fresher all the while, “from whom did the doctor purchase it at so ridiculous a price?”
“From a fool bookstorekeeper of course; one of those upstarts who know nothing at all about books; who handle them as pure merchandise, purchased at so much and sold for forty and five per cent more, regardless of actual value. He’d bought it to help out some ignorant foreigner, a Spaniard I believe. He’d paid ten dollars and had been terribly pleased within himself when he made five on the deal.”
“Who was he?” Lucile asked eagerly, “and where was his shop?”
“That I didn’t trouble to find out. Very likely he’s out of business by now. Such shops are like grass in autumn, soon die down and the snow covers them up. The doctor could tell you though. I’ll give you his address and you may go and ask him.”
The short afternoon was near spent and the shades of night were already falling when at last Lucile entered the shop of the unfortunate bookseller who had not realized the value of the little book. Lunch had delayed her, then the doctor had been out making calls and had kept her waiting for two hours. The little shop had been hard to find, but here at last she was.
A pitiful shop it was, possessing but a few hundred volumes and presided over by a grimy-fingered man who might but the day before have been promoted from the garbage wagon so far as personal appearance was concerned. Indeed, as Lucile looked over the place she was seized with the crazy notion that the whole place, books, shelves and proprietor, had but recently climbed down from the junk cart.
“And yet,” she told herself, “it was from this very heap of dusty paper and cardboard that this precious bit of literature which I have in my pocket, was salvaged. I must not forget that.