“No, no,” she whispered emphatically after a moment’s thought. “And, yet, there was the gargoyle bookmark in the inside cover, the same as in our Shakespeare. How strange! It might be—and, yet, one can never tell.”
That evening was Lucile’s regular period at the library, so, much as she should have liked delving more deeply into the mystery which had all but taken possession of her, she was obliged to bend over a desk checking off books.
Working with her was Harry Brock, a fellow student. Harry was the kind of fellow one speaks of oftenest as a “nice boy.” Clean, clear-cut, carefully dressed, studious, energetic and accurate, he set an example which was hard to follow. He had taken a brotherly interest in Lucile from the start and had helped her over many hard places in the library until she learned her duties.
Shortly after she had come in he paused by her desk and said in a quiet tone:
“Do you know, I’m worried about the disappearance of that set of Shakespeare. Sort of gives our section a long black mark. Can’t see where it’s disappeared to.”
Lucile drew in a long breath. What was he driving at? Did he suspect? Did he—
“If I wasn’t so sure our records were perfect,” he broke in on her mental questioning, “I’d say it was tucked away somewhere and would turn up. But we’ve all been careful. It just can’t be here.”
He paused as if in reflection, then said suddenly:
“Do you think one would ever be justified in protecting a person whom he knew had stolen something?”
Lucile started. What did he mean? Did he suspect something? Had he perhaps seen her enter the library on one of those nights of her watching? Did he suspect her? For a second the color rushed flaming to her cheeks. But, fortunately, he was looking away. The next second she was her usual calm self.