“But if they did, why should they call the police for your protection?”
“Yes, why? Why? A whole lot of whys. And who would suspect me? I would trust Frank Morrow to keep faith with me. I am sure he trusts me fully. The Portland chart book affair I was not in at all. The bindery would scarcely suspect me. There’s only our own library left. You don’t think—”
“One scarcely knows what to think,” said Florence wearily. “We sometimes forget that we are but two poor girls who are more or less dependent on the university for our support while we secure an education. Perhaps you should have confided in the library authorities in the beginning.”
“Perhaps. But it’s too late now. I must see the thing through.”
“You don’t believe the old Frenchman’s story.”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to doubt it. He seems so sincere. There’s something left out, I suppose.”
“Of course there is. In order to keep from starving, he was obliged to sell some of his books. Then, being heartbroken over the loss of them, he has induced the child to steal them back for him. That seems sensible enough, doesn’t it? Of course it’s a pity that he should have been forced to sell them, but they were, in a way, a luxury. We all are obliged to give up some luxuries. For my part, I don’t see how you are going to keep him out of jail. The child will probably come clear because of her age, but there’s not a chance in a million of saving him. There’s got to be a show-down sometime. Why not now? The facts we have in our possession are the rightful property of others, of our library, Frank Morrow, the scientific library, of the Silver-Barnard bindery. Why not pass them on?”
Florence was sitting bolt upright in bed. She pointed her finger at her roommate by way of emphasis.
But, tired and perplexed as she was, Lucile never flinched.
“Your logic is all right save for two things,” she smiled wearily.