The door flew open. The man entered. The door was closed.
“Look!” whispered Lucile, pressing Florence toward the spot where the light streamed out. “Look, I know him.”
She gave Florence but a half moment, then dragging her from the place of vantage pressed her own face to the glass.
“This would be abominable,” she whispered, “if it weren’t for the fact that we are trying to help them—trying to find a way out.”
The man, a very young man with a slight moustache, had removed his coat and hat and had taken a seat. He was talking to the old man. He did the greater part of the talking. Every now and again he would pause and the old man would shake his head.
This pantomime was kept up for some time. At last the young man rose and walked toward the bookshelves. The old man half rose in his chair as if to detain him, then settled back again.
The young man’s eyes roved over the books, then came to rest suddenly in a certain spot. Then his hand went out.
The old man sprang to his feet. There were words on his lips. What they were the girls could not tell.
Smiling with the good-natured grace of one who is accustomed to have what he desires, the young man opened the book to glance at the title page. At once his face became eager. He glanced hurriedly through the book. He turned to put a question to the old man beside him.
The old man nodded.