“Yes, yes!” the man’s tones were eager.
“And, and,” Lucile whispered the words, “was there a bookmark in the upper corner of the inside of the front cover?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” He uttered the words in a tense whisper. “How can you know so much about the book?”
“Please,” pleaded Lucile, “I can’t tell you now. But per—perhaps I can help you.”
“I will take you to our president, to Mr. Silver.”
“Please—please—no—not now. Please let me go now. I must think. I will come back—truly—truly I will.”
With the instinct of a born gentleman he escorted her to a side door and let her out.
The sunshine, as she emerged, seemed unreal to her. Everything seemed unreal.
“The gargoyle! The gargoyle!” she whispered hoarsely. “Can I never escape it? Can I go no place without discovering that books marked with that hated, haunting sign have been stolen? That book, the hand-bound copy of ‘Mysteries of the Sea,’ is the latest acquirement of the old man in the mystery cottage on Tyler street. She stole it; the child stole it. And why? Why? It seems that I should tell all that I know,” she whispered to herself, “that it is my duty. Surely the thing can’t go on.” She bathed her flushed cheeks in the outer air.
“And yet,” she thought more calmly, “there are the old man, the child. There is something back of it all. The gargoyle’s secret. Oh! if only one knew!”