Chapter 9 SHADOWED

A cold fog hung low over the city as the two girls stole forth from the elevated station that night on their way to Tyler street. From the trestlework of the elevated there came a steady drip-drip; the streets reeked with damp and chill; the electric lamps seemed but balls of light suspended in space.

"B-r-r!" said Florence, drawing her wraps more closely about her. "What a night!"

"Sh!" whispered Lucile, dragging her into a corner. "There's someone following us again."

Scarcely had she spoken the words when a man with collar turned up and cap pulled low passed within four feet of them. He traveled with a long, swinging stride. Lucile fancied that she recognized that stride, but she could not be sure; also, for the moment she could not remember who the person was who walked in this fashion.

"Only some man returning to his home," said Florence. "This place gets on your nerves."

"Perhaps," said Lucile.

As they reached the street before the cottage of many mysteries they were pleased to see lights streaming from the rent in the shade.

"At least we shall be able to tell whether they have the book of Portland charts," sighed Lucile as she prepared to make a dash for the shadows.

"Now," she breathed; "there's no one in sight."

Like two lead-colored drifts of fog they glided into a place by the window.

Lucile was first to look. The place seemed quite familiar to her. Indeed, at first glance she would have said that nothing was changed. The old man sat in his chair. Half in a doze, he had doubtless drifted into the sort of day-dream that old persons often indulge in. The child, too, sat by the table. She was sewing. That she meant to go out later was proved by the fact that her coat and tam-o'-shanter lay on a near-by chair.

As I have said, Lucile's first thought was that nothing had changed. One difference, however, did not escape her. Two books had been added to the library. The narrow, unfilled space had been narrowed still further. One book was tall, too tall for the space which it was supposed to occupy, so tall that it leaned a little to the right. The other book did not appear to be an old volume. On the contrary its back was bright and shiny as if just coming from the press. It was highly ornamented with figures and a title done all in gold. These fairly flashed in the lamplight.

"That's strange!" she whispered to herself.

But even as she thought it, she realized that this was no ordinary publishers' binding.

"Leather," she told herself, "rich leather binding and I shouldn't wonder if the letters and decorations were done in pure gold."

Without knowing exactly why she did it, she made a mental note of every figure which played a part in the decorating of the back of that book.

Then suddenly remembering her companion and their problem, she touched her arm as she whispered:

"Look! Is that tall book second from the end on the shelf with the vacant space the Portland chart book?"

Florence pressed her face to the glass and peered for the first time into the room of mysteries. For a full two minutes she allowed the scene to be photographed on the sensitive plates of her brain. Then turning slowly away she whispered:

"Yes, I believe it is."

They were just thinking of seeking a place of greater safety when a footstep sounded on the pavement close at hand. Crouching low they waited the stranger's passing.

To their consternation, he did not pass but turned in at the short walk which led up to the cottage.

Crouching still lower, scarcely breathing, they waited.

The man made his way directly to the door. After apparently fumbling about for an electric button, he suddenly flashed out an electric torch.

With an inaudible gasp Florence prepared to drag her companion out of their place of danger. But to their intense relief the man flashed the light off, then gave the door a resounding knock.

That one flash of light had been sufficient to reveal to Lucile the features of his face. She recognized it instantly. In her surprise she gripped her companion's arm until she was ready to cry out with pain.

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.

Instantly the young man's hand was in his pocket. The two girls shrank back in fear. But the thing he took from his pocket was a small book, apparently a check book.

Speaking, he held the check book toward the old man. The old man shook his head. This touch of drama was repeated three times. Then, with a disappointed look on his face, the young man replaced the book, turned to the chair on which his hat and coat rested, put them on, said good night to the old man, bowed to the child and was gone.

The two girls, after stretching their cramped limbs, made their way safely to the sidewalk.

"Who-who was he?" whispered Florence through chattering teeth.

"R. Stanley Ramsey."

"Not the rich Ramsey?"

"His son."

"What did he want?"

"I don't know," said Lucile, "but it may be that we have found the man higher up, the real criminal. It may be that this rich young fellow is getting them to steal the books so he can buy them cheap."

Lucile told of the incident regarding the copy of "The Compleat Angler."

"He said he thought he knew where there was another copy. Don't you see, he may have gotten the girl to steal it. And now he comes for it and is disappointed because they haven't got it for him."

"It might be," said Florence doubtfully, "but it doesn't seem probable, does it? He must have plenty of money."

"Perhaps his father doesn't give him a large allowance. Then, again, perhaps, he thinks such things are smart. They say that some rich men's sons are that way. There's something that happened in there though that I don't understand. He-"

"Hist," whispered Florence, dragging her into a slow walk; "here comes the child."

Once more they saw the slim wisp of a girl steal out like a ghost into the night.