“Isn’t it strange!” mused Lucile. “He might pack a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of old books in a space two feet long, and will at the rate he’s going.”
“The greatest mystery after all is the gargoyle in the corner of each book they take,” said Florence, wrinkling her brow. “He seems to be sort of specializing in those books. They are taken probably from a private library that has been sold and scattered.”
“That is strange!” said Lucile. “The whole affair is most mysterious! And, by the way,” she smiled, “I have never taken the trouble to look into that papier-mache lunch box the child lost on the street, the night we rescued her from that strange and terrible woman. There might possibly be some clue in it.”
“Might,” agreed Florence.
Now that the thought had occurred to them, they were eager to inspect the box. Lucile’s fingers trembled as they unloosed the clasps which held it shut. And well they might have trembled, for, as it was thrown open, it revealed a small book done in a temporary binding of vellum.
Lucile gave it one glance, then with a little cry of surprise, dropped it as if it were on fire.
“Why! Why! What?” exclaimed Florence in astonishment.
“It’s Frank Morrow’s book, Walton’s ‘Compleat Angler.’ The first edition. The one worth sixteen hundred dollars. And it’s been right here in this room all the time!” Lucile sank into a chair and there sat staring at the strangely found book.
“Isn’t that queer!” said Florence at last.
“She—she’d been to his shop. Got into the building just the way you said she would, by posing as a scrubwoman’s child, and had made a safe escape when that woman for some mysterious reason grabbed her and tried to carry her off.”