“Well, what will it be to-day?” he smiled. “A folio edition of Shakespeare or only the original manuscript of one of his plays?”
“Oh,” she smiled back, “are there really original manuscripts of Shakespeare’s plays?”
“Not that anyone has ever discovered. But, my young lady, if you chance to come across one, I’ll pledge to sell it for you for a million dollars flat and not charge you a cent commission.”
“Oh!” breathed Lucile, “that would be marvelous.”
Then suddenly she remembered her reason for being there.
“Please may I take a chair?” she asked, her lips aquiver with some new excitement.
“By all means.” Frank Morrow himself sank into a chair.
“Mr. Morrow,” said Lucile, poising on the very edge of the chair while she clasped and unclasped her hands, “if I were to tell you that I know exactly where your book is, the one worth sixteen hundred dollars; the Compleat Angler, what would you say?”
Frank Morrow let a paperweight he had been toying with crash down upon the top of his desk, yet as he turned to look at her there was no emotion expressed upon his face, a whimsical smile, that was all.
“I’d say you were a fortunate girl. You probably know I offered a hundred dollar reward for its return. This morning I doubled that.”