The Secret Mark

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER IV WHAT THE GARGOYLE MIGHT TELL

  Frank Morrow was the type of man any girl might be glad to claim as afriend. He had passed his sixty-fifth birthday and for thirty-five yearshe had been a dealer in old books, yet he was neither stooped nornear-sighted. A man of broad shoulders and robust frame, he delighted asmuch in a low morning score at golf as he did in the discovery of a rareold book. His hair was white but his cheeks retained much of their ruddyglow. His quiet smile gave to all who visited his shop a feeling ofgenuine welcome which they did not soon forget.

  His shop, like himself, reflected the new era which has dawned in the oldbook business. Men have come to realize that age lends worth to booksthat possessed real worth in the beginning and they are coming to housethem well. On one of the upper floors of a modern business block FrankMorrow's shop was flooded with sunshine and fresh air. A potted plantbloomed on his desk. The books, arranged neatly without a painful effortat order, presented the appearance of some rich gentleman's library. Adarker corner, a room by itself, to the right and back, suggested privacyand seclusion and here Frank Morrow's finds were kept. Many of them wererichly bound and autographed.

  The wise and the rich of the world passed through Frank Morrow's shop,for in his brain there rested knowledge which no other living man couldimpart. Did a bishop wish to purchase an out-of-print book for hisecclesiastical library, he came to Frank Morrow to ask where it might befound. Did the prince of the steel market wish a folio edition ofAudubon's "Birds of America"? He came to Frank and somewhere, in Boston,New York, Philadelphia, Frank found it for him. Authors came to him andartists as well, not so much for what he could find for them as for whathe might impart in the way of genial friendship and the lore of books.

  It was to this man and this shop that Lucile made her way next morning.She was not prepared to confide in him to the extent of telling him thewhole story of her mystery, for she did not know him well. He was herfather's friend, that was all. She did wish to tell him that she was introuble and to ask his opinion of the probable value of the set ofShakespeare which had been removed from the university library.

  "Well, now," he smiled as he adjusted his glasses after she had asked herquestion, "I'll be glad to help you if I can, but I'm not sure that Ican. There are Shakespeares and other Shakespeares. I don't know theuniversity set--didn't buy it for them. Probably a donation from some richman. It might be a folio edition. In that case--well"--he paused and smiledagain--"I trust you haven't burned this Shakespeare by mistake nor had itstolen from your room or anything like that?"

  "No! Oh, no! Not--nothing like that!" exclaimed Lucile.

  "Well, as I was about to say, I found a very nice folio edition for arich friend of mine not so very long ago. The sale of it I think was therecord for this city. It cost him eighteen thousand dollars."

  Lucile gasped, then sat staring at him in astonishment.

  "Eighteen thousand dollars!" she managed to murmur at last.

  "Of course you understand that was a folio edition, very rare. There areother old editions that are cheaper, much cheaper."

  "I--I hope so," murmured Lucile.

  "Would you like to see some old books and get a notion of their value?"he asked.

  "Indeed I would."

  "Step in here." He led the way into the mysterious dark room. There heswitched on a light to reveal walls packed with books.

  "Here's a little thing," he smiled, taking down a volume which would fitcomfortably into a man's coat pocket; "Walton's Compleat Angler. It's afirst edition. Bound in temporary binding, vellum. What would you say itwas worth?"

  "I--I couldn't guess. Please don't make me," Lucile pleaded.

  "Sixteen hundred dollars."

  Again Lucile stared at him in astonishment. "That little book!"

  "You see," he said, motioning her a seat, "rare books, like many otherrare things, derive their value from their scarcity. The first edition ofthis book was very small. Being small and comparatively cheap, the largernumber of the books were worn out, destroyed or lost. So the remainingbooks have come to possess great value. The story--"

  He came to an abrupt pause, arrested by a look of astonishment on thegirl's face, as she gazed at the book he held.

  "Why, what--" he began.

  "That," Lucile pointed to a raised monogram in the upper inside cover ofthe book.

  "A private mark," explained Morrow. "Many rich men and men of noble birthin the past had private marks which they put in their books. The customseems to be as old as books themselves. Men do it still. Let's see, whatis that one?"

  "An embossed 'L' around two sides of the picture of a gargoyle," saidLucile in as steady a tone as she could command.

  "Ah! yes, a very unusual one. In all my experience I have seen but fivebooks with that mark in them. All have passed through my hands during thepast two years. And yet this mark is a very old one. See how yellow thepaper is. Probably some foreign library. Many rare books came across thesea during the war. I believe--"

  He paused to reflect, then said with a tone of certainty, "Yes, I knowthat mark was in the folio edition of Shakespeare which I sold lastyear."

  His words caught Lucile's breath. For the moment she could neither movenor speak. The thought that the set of Shakespeare taken from the librarymight be the very set sold to the rich man, and worth eighteen thousanddollars, struck her dumb.

  Fortunately the dealer did not notice her distress but pointing to thebookmark went on: "If that gargoyle could talk now, if it could tell itsstory and the story of the book it marks, what a yarn it might spin.

  "For instance," his eyes half closed as the theme gripped him, "this markis unmistakably continental--French or German. French, I'd say, from theform of the 'L' and the type of gargoyle. Many men of wealth and of noblebirth on the continent have had large collections of books printed inEnglish. This little book with the gargoyle on the inside of its cover isa hundred years old. It's a young book as ancient books go, yet whatthings have happened in its day. It has seen wars and bloodshed. Thelibrary in which it has reposed may have been the plotting place ofkings, knights and dukes or of rebels and regicides.

  "It may have witnessed domestic tragedies. What great man may havecontemplated the destruction of his wife? What noble lady may havewhispered in its presence of some secret love? What youths and maids mayhave slipped away into its quiet corner to utter murmurs of eternaldevotion?

  "It may have been stolen, been carried away as booty in war, been pawnedwith its mates to secure a nobleman's ransom.

  "Oh, I tell you," he smiled as he read the interest in her face, "thereis romance in old books, thrilling romance. Whole libraries have beenstolen and secretly disposed of. Chests of books have been captured bypirates.

  "Here is a book, a copy of Marco Polo's travels, a first edition copywhich, tradition tells us, was once owned by the renowned pirate, CaptainKidd. I am told he was fond of reading. However that may be, therecertainly were men of learning among his crew. There never was asuccessful gang of thieves that did not have at least one college man init."

  He chuckled at his own witticism and Lucile smiled with him.

  "Well," he said rising, "if there is anything I can do for you at anytime, drop in and ask me. I am always at the service of fair youngladies. One never grows too old for that; besides, your father was myvery good friend."

  Lucile thanked him, took a last look at the pocket volume worth sixteenhundred dollars, made a mental note of the form of its gargoyle, thenhanded it to him and left the room. She little dreamed how soon and underwhat strange circumstances she would see that book again.

  She left the shop of Frank Morrow in a strange state of mind. She feltthat she should turn the facts in her possession over to the officials ofthe library and allow them to deal with the child and the old man. Yetthere was something mysterious about it all. That collector of books,doubtless worth a fortune, in surroundings which betokened poverty, thestrange
book mark, the look on the old man's face as he fingered thevolume of Shakespeare, how explain all these? If the universityauthorities or the police handled the case, would they take time to solvethese mysteries, to handle the case in such a way as would not hasten thedeath of this feeble old man nor blight the future of this strange child?She feared not.

  "Life, the life of a child, is of greater importance than is an ancientvolume," she told herself at last. "And with the help of Florence andperhaps of Frank Morrow I will solve the mystery myself. Yes, even if itcosts me my position and my hope for an education!" She paused to stampthe pavement, then hurried away toward the university.