The Unpublishable Memoirs

"THE HUNDRED AND FIRST STORY"

The owner did not at the time of the robbery suspect anyone. The volume had disappeared; that was all. Yesterday the famous copy of Boccaccio printed by Valdarfer in the year of grace 1471 had been one of the talked-of things in John Libro's famous library. It had reposed in its case along with its ancient companions, who in the silence of the night would relate to one another the right merry tales of Fair Jehan, of Patient Grissel, of Launcelot du Lac; and their morocco sides would shake with laughter at the quips of Giovanni Boccaccio, of Certaldo, and the rude, trenchant jests of Master Francis Rabelais. The fine old volume, which had been the envy and despair of book-lovers, had only recently been added to the collection of Mr. Libro. In 1812 it had the proud record of selling for over £2000 and since then it had a most splendid career, having been fondled and loved by only the elite of the bibliomaniac world. Its owners had been knights, viscounts, dukes, kings, emperors,—and bibliophiles!

On the night of December 12, 1910, the "Valdarfer Boccaccio," as it had been termed, had been shown to a number of members of the "Maioli Club," a club consisting only of those interested in rare prints, books, typography, early manuscripts, and money. The volume, after having been sufficiently admired, handled, looked into, collated and gossiped over, was locked in its case by Mr. Libro, who felt a feeling of relief when the doors were shut and the key stored safely in his pocket. He did not like the rude way some of the younger and inexperienced members handled the precious gift of the gods; and a very thoughtful and scholarly collector had the audacity and unheard of temerity to read it!

The next morning on going into the library all Mr. Libro saw was a vacancy in his favorite bookcase. Between the Dante of 1481 and the Aldine "Poliphilus" was an oblong space that had been so gloriously filled by the distinguished production of the press of Italy. The Boccaccio had vanished!

The news of its loss was flashed over the entire world. Comment on its strange disappearance was general; articles appeared in the newspapers on how to safeguard the world's great literary treasures; the London Times had a leading article in which it was stated that "America did not deserve to own things of inestimable artistic and intellectual value if it did not know how to preserve them."

The first thing a gentleman does when he has been robbed is to call in a detective whose name is always a household word in novels and plays. Mr. Libro requested John Bunting to aid him with his advice, notwithstanding the fact that he had been overwhelmed with suggestions from every newspaper reporter in the United States and Canada.

At noon Bunting called. After asking the usual questions, which although a great detective, he did not disdain to do, he requested Mr. Libro to tell him the names of his guests of the night before.

"But, Mr. Bunting, I tell you I myself locked the case, put the key in my pocket, and retired. They could not possibly have extracted it in my presence, and I saw the last of them to the door."

"I would like their names."

"But I do not suspect any of them, Mr. Bunting."

"That is not so, Mr. Libro, if I may be permitted to say so. You do not care to admit it, but you suspect someone of that Literary Club."

"I am suspicious of my best friends, but dare not indicate any one. If you want their names, I shall tell you—James Blakely, the great authority on Elizabethan Poetry; Henry Sterling, of Sterling, Petty & Co.; Robert Rodd, who knows more about the first editions of Paradise Lost than anyone; Edward Stevens; James Janney—that's five—there were six,— Oh, yes, Robert Hooker. He is quite a student but does not possess the bank account to buy all the books he wants. He would spend a million a year if he had it. He was the underbidder on the Boccaccio. Yes, Mr. Bunting, Hooker came near owning it once. I sent an unlimited bid for it at the Sunderland Sale. He tried to buy it from the bookseller who acted as my agent, when he found his own bid had not been high enough."

"Mr. Libro, that is interesting. It was no ordinary thief, however, who took it. The ordinary New Yorker does not know the difference between that book and one by Marie Corelli!"

Bunting began the investigation at once. He followed zealously every clew. A few notorious criminals, who were seen in the immediate vicinity of the house, were interviewed without result. One of them, who had been noticed a block from the house shortly after midnight, was locked up on suspicion. He was discharged from custody the next morning as nothing could be proved against him. This individual, who was known to the police as "Booky" Phillips, had been arrested many times, but never convicted. The Chief found him quite placid under the rapid fire of his questions. He had read of the lost Boccaccio in the Herald, but did not understand why any "self-respecting thief would stoop to steal a worthless old book!"

As a last resort Bunting was compelled to investigate the members of the Maioli Club. Although they were book-lovers the detective found, much to his surprise, that they were respectable citizens. He called one day upon Mr. Hooker without giving notice of his visit.

"Mr. Hooker," he said, "I would like to know about the book missing from the Libro collection. Do you know where it is?"

Mr. Hooker seemed to be choking. His face grew red and he could not answer for the moment. Bunting repeated the question and Hooker grew angry.

"How dare you ask me such a thing? You are so accustomed to dealing with thieves that you try your crude methods on everyone. The book will turn up sometime; meanwhile myself and all my friends will be continually annoyed by your insults and threats. Good-day."

The detective left. He felt sure that Hooker knew more than he cared to admit. Perhaps the book was even now upon his shelves. He would have his house and office searched. This was done. The Boccaccio was nowhere to be seen.

Two years passed. The Valdarfer Boccaccio, which had been a day's wonder, was forgotten by all except Mr. Libro and Mr. Hooker. They saw each other rarely after the loss of the unlucky volume; in fact they avoided each other. The incident was never mentioned among the members of the Maioli Club—it was a thing never to be spoken of at its meetings.

It was, however, again to be the subject of talk and gossip. On December 12, 1912, two years to a day after its strange disappearance, the volume turned up in all the glory of its illuminated page and superb morocco binding. Giovanni Boccaccio had added another story to the Hundred that composed his immortal collection.

And where had it been found? The last place in the entire world. In the New York Public Library! For almost two years it had reposed there, with no one to cherish it or dip into its witty contents. In a book-case, side by side with other great masterpieces of literature, it had remained neglected by the inhabitants of New York, who in the newspapers of that great city figure as learned and scholarly! The old story, "that the best place to hide a book was in a Wall Street broker's office" was found to be pleasant but fanciful fiction! It was far safer in the public library: no one would look for it there!

On the morning of the twelfth of December a gentleman came to the Inquiry Desk. He appeared to Mr. Jones, one of the assistant librarians, to be interested in books on the subject of Religion, so he requested the visitor to go with him to the book-stacks, as there were too many of them to carry to the reading tables. And theological books were always so heavy! While looking over the collection the man called Mr. Jones' attention to the label of John Libro in one of them, and asked why the "Decameron" of Boccaccio was put among the religious books? Mr. Jones blushed! He gasped, however, when he recognized the long-lost volume. He would take it at once to the principal librarian. He first asked the stranger's name,—the fortunate discoverer of the missing treasure. He gave Mr. Jones his card. Engraved thereon was "B. Phillips."

The newspapers were full of the curious recovery of the Boccaccio, were quite facetious about it and went so far as to call the great building on Fifth Avenue a Literary Mausoleum. Others suggested that the State should appropriate money for the purchase of modern sex novels,—the only books that were really read! But despite the jibes and explanations the real mystery was unsolved. How was the book stolen and why?

Three days later the following letter appeared in the newspapers. It is given here because it will make a fitting ending to the Hundred and First Tale of the Decameron.

New York, December 14, 1912.

Sir:

I have read with interest the various explanations given in the papers concerning the disappearance of the book from Mr. Libro's library. I can supply the key to the whole problem.

Some two years or so ago, I was stone broke. One day I read that Mr. Libro had purchased at a great price the book which has caused all this commotion. I thought I would lift it some night when I had nothing better to do, and sell it back to its owner or some other book crank. I called one afternoon at the Libro house with some magazines on pretence of securing subscriptions. The ruse worked. Mr. Libro ordered the Bookman,—a magazine I had never heard of. He showed me one or two of his books,—these maniacs always want to show you their things. I was bored to death, as you can imagine.

While he was signing the subscription blank I made a wax impression of the key to the cases. That night I did a second story job. The window was open. I easily found the library. But where was the confounded book? I looked everywhere. There seemed to be millions of books. In one case I noticed a shelf that was uneven. I looked at it. I saw the name "Boccaccio." I placed the volume underneath my coat and left.

The evening papers were filled with the news. What could I do with the volume? I could not keep it in my room, as I feared the police would find it. I did not dream that it would be missed so soon, and I did not anticipate all this fuss over a shabby old book. I tried to think of a place to hide it, but could not. One of the papers said that a Richard Hooker was the other crank who had bid for it at the auction sale. If I went to him now he would refuse to buy it and arrest me.

I tried another and surer course. That night I went to Hooker's house,—another second story job—and left the cursed book in the most conspicuous place in the library. The next day I called on him. I said I was Mr. Scott,—a detective. I accused him of stealing the book from Mr. Libro. He said I lied. I told him he had the book in his house now. From the expression on his face I knew I had him. He said he had found the book in his library, but had not taken it and did not know how it had got there. I asked him if he thought anyone would believe him. He said—No! Everyone would think he had stolen it. Hooker offered me a thousand dollars to take the book and say nothing. I accepted two thousand dollars in cash. I took the book, but where to hide it I did not know. It was under my coat when I was passing 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue. A thought struck me. I would place it where it would never be found. The people here have no time to read books; it was the best place of all. In a moment I was in the library; I threw the cursed old thing on one of the shelves. I left in great glee.

At the corner of 40th Street and the Avenue I was arrested by one of Captain Bunting's men. They tried to get something on me, but could not. I was innocent!

I am on my way to London to visit the British Museum, for I find the study of books profitable.

Yours very truly,
    B. PHILLIPS.

THE LADY OF THE BREVIARY

The Abelard Missal was lost to him forever.

When Mr. Richard Blaythwaite was alive, Robert Hooker had a small chance, one in ten thousand perhaps, of securing it and adding this beautiful memento of the Renaissance to his "museum of the imagination." But now that Blaythwaite was dead, all hope of owning it had vanished.

Hooker would not have hesitated, in the cause of the public, to have taken it by fair means or foul from Blaythwaite, but he would not rob a woman. He was singularly squeamish upon this point.

Richard Blaythwaite had left everything to his only daughter, including the famous Abelard missal.

It was a marvelous manuscript dating from the sixteenth century, and contained at the end the beautiful and tragic story of those mediæval lovers, Abelard and Heloise.

The pictures that decorated the missal, however, were its chief glory.... They were the work of Giulio Clovio, and executed by the great miniaturist for Philip the Second of Spain. The full page illuminations, with the exquisite colors, heightened with gold, were worth a king's ransom, or a queen's reputation. The binding was in keeping with the superb quality of the breviary, being in old purple morocco, the royal arms of Castile impressed in gold upon the sides.

Hooker tried in every way but could not give up the idea of being its possessor. It haunted him at night, and during the day his mind constantly reverted to its matchless colors and quaint designs.

He knew Miss Blaythwaite slightly, having met her in former days at her father's house, when he used to delight in looking over his famous library. The pity of it all was that the missal was to be in the keeping of a woman. If it had gone to some collector who would treasure it as a delectable gift of the gods, it would not be so bad. But to a woman! The thought almost drove him mad.

One evening, in despair, he resolved to call at the fine old house, and glance once more at the lovely picture of Abelard imprinting his last kiss upon the lips of Heloise.

He felt some misgivings, when he was told that Miss Blaythwaite was at home and would see him. He almost hated her, and he could not forbear the thought that the Abelard missal was no more to her than her pet dog, or the bracelet upon her fair wrist.

When she entered the room, he was taken aback. When he saw her some years ago, she was but a slip of a girl, with long hair down her back. She was now tall and stately, with beautiful deep blue eyes. She was dressed simply; and Hooker thought exceedingly well, but he was not a judge. He knew more about the morocco covering of an old book than a lady's apparel.

"Good evening, Mr. Hooker. I'm glad you called," she said.

"Thank you, Miss Blaythwaite. It's been a long time since I've had the pleasure of seeing you."

"Yes, you've rather neglected us lately. Are you still interested in books? Poor father had quite a mania for them."

"That's what first brought me to the house. Do you remember how we used to spend hours going over his books?"

"Hours? It seemed ages to mother and me. Poor mother, how furious she used to be when father brought those dusty old books into the house. She used to say that father threw away his money on them. He'd give a hundred dollars for a shabby old thing, when he could have bought a nice, modern edition for five."

At this, Robert Hooker was speechless!

"I suppose you would like to see some of the additions to the library," Miss Blaythwaite continued, "father bought books until he died. You know he caught pneumonia by going to an auction-sale, one cold day last winter. This is the book he bought,—but at what a cost!"

She took from the shelves which lined the walls, a small volume. It was a copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, the first edition; published in 1609.

"And the strange part of it all, Mr. Hooker, I believe in my heart that papa never regretted its purchase."

Hooker was about to remark that it was worth the risk, but checked himself in time.

"It was foolish. Your father, however, was a true bibliophile."

Miss Blaythwaite returned this volume of volumes to its position in the case, and when Hooker saw it, he turned pale. She had put it in upside down—a terrible thing to do. One would have to stand upon his head to read the title, and booklovers do not believe in gymnastics.

He immediately placed it in its proper position, carefully, tenderly—as if it had been a baby, which was precious to him, but not quite so precious as an old book or manuscript!

"Father could not bear us to put books in upside down, but mother and I would often forget, and the way father scolded, you would think we had committed a horrid crime."

At this, they both laughed.

When Hooker was shown the breviary, he lingered for a long time over its magic pages. He felt the cool vellum leaves with his fingers, for fear lest the missal would slip through his hand, and disappear forever!

For over two months, Hooker was a constant visitor at the Blaythwaite home. He became intimately acquainted with every book in the library; he could tell the exact date of publication of the early printed volumes; the place where it was printed; the name of the binder, and other useless information.

Even Miss Blaythwaite caught some of the contagion. She, who had formerly cared nothing for her father's "playthings," became interested in them. Sometimes she would take down from a shelf a volume of old English poetry, and become absorbed in the lyrical sweetness of the verse. Occasionally, she would read aloud to Hooker some beautiful poems that she had discovered in Ben Jonson, in Crashaw, or in Herrick; and he would tell her of his aspirations, and of the Museum that existed only in his mind. He told her of the wonderful things he already possessed.

Although Hooker had known Miss Blaythwaite for some time, she was to him always, the Lady of the Breviary.

When he felt the delicious warmth of her hand, he thought of the missal; when she was seated near him, poring over some old volume of forgotten lore, his mind turned to its wonderful binding, or its miraculous miniatures. Strange as it may seem, Miss Blaythwaite was nothing more to him than the guardian and sole owner of a book that his soul desired. Sometimes, when they were reading together some volume of Elizabethan verse, another caller would be announced; Hooker would be presented, and then he would retire gracefully to her father's library, leaving the field clear to his rival. This, of course, was not flattering to Miss Blaythwaite!

One night, Jack Worthing was there before him. He was a clean-cut, manly fellow, interested first in sports, and after that in business. He had known Miss Blaythwaite for years. The talk turned, as it will always turn, when bibliophiles are present, upon books.

"I don't understand you fellows," said Worthing. "You think more of an old book than many people of their children!"

"Of course! Children often grow up into ill-mannered youths and conceited young ladies. Books always remain young and delightful!"

"But, confound it! You never read them. You have thousands around you all the time, and I bet you don't read ten a year."

"Rare books are meant to be carefully nurtured during our lives, and passed on after our death to those who will appreciate them. Only college professors, students, scholars, and such people ever read books," answered Hooker, contemptuously.

"I think book-men the most foolish class of persons on earth," retorted Worthing. "Give me some good old sport, like boxing, or foot-ball, that makes your heart tingle, that causes the red blood to shoot through your veins—that makes life worth living! Man wasn't created to spend his life roaming around a dusky old library, when he can go out into God's pure air and enjoy the fields and the streams, the forests and the lakes!"

At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to smile approvingly.

Hooker said nothing. Bibliophiles are not missionaries. They do not go into the by-ways of the world to uphold their creeds, for the love of books is such a wonderful thing that it can never be explained!

When he left Miss Blaythwaite that night, he felt that the breviary was farther from him than ever.

Hooker, however, came swiftly to a decision.

The only way he could obtain the Abelard Missal, was by marrying Miss Blaythwaite. The next evening he called, with this firmly fixed in his mind. This wily, calculating book-worm had slowly crept into her affections. He knew she liked him, but would she marry him?

He asked her with great fervor, which was assumed, whether she would become his wife. He waited breathlessly for her answer.

"I want to be frank with you, Robert," she said. "I do not think you love me."

"How can you say such a thing?"

"Instinctively, I feel it. I like you, but I cannot marry you."

"Why not? Is there someone else?"

Miss Blaythwaite smiled.

"Yes."

"I never dreamed of it. Of course I might have known."

"You do know, Robert."

"Is it Jack Worthing?"

"No."

"Then, who is it?"

"It's that old missal. You are more in love with that, than you are with me. I can see it in your eyes, in your talk, in everything. If I were not its owner, you would never come near me."

"Then you will not marry me?"

"No, I cannot. Do you know, Robert, I've become actually jealous of that breviary, and intend to present it to some library or museum! It ought, by right, to go to the Metropolitan."

"For God's sake," Hooker cried in mortal anguish, "do anything but that!"

For over six months the forlorn bibliophile remained away from the Lady of the Breviary. Somehow or other, it was not the missal which was foremost in his thoughts. His books, his autographs, his porcelains, his engravings had no longer the charm they once had. He no longer took an interest in the auction-sales, and the catalogues that came to him would lie neglected upon his desk.

He looked with particular distaste upon the "Three Trees" and the "Unpublishable Memoirs" and the Shakespeare-Bacon volume. He even thought of returning them to their owners! The great institute to be founded and called after his name, was a thing of the past! He had acted like a cad, he said to himself. To marry a woman for an old book was almost as bad as marrying for money!

One evening, Hooker came to the conclusion that he could not stand this loneliness, this desolation, any longer. He intended to leave the country, to wander in foreign lands! He would call again upon Miss Blaythwaite for the last time, but would she receive him?

His heart was beating rapidly when the maid told him she was in, and would see him.

And there was Jack Worthing with her, looking big and manly, and courageous as ever!

Miss Blaythwaite seemed delighted to see him. A sudden joy seemed to overspread her features! And Hooker noticed things about her he had never noticed before. He saw the appealing dimples in her cheeks—the fine hair blowing near the temples—the exquisite shape of her ears—the wonderful turquoise-blue of her eyes!

And Jack Worthing was talking of books! A miracle had happened! Somehow or other, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to take a decided interest in the library left her by her father, and during the last half of the year, she was continually speaking to Worthing of first editions and Caxtons; of Elzevirs and typography; of Americana, incunabula and such ridiculous things, and all in a jargon that was quite unintelligible to him. And Worthing determined to study the things she liked, and borrowed some reference-books from a library that told of the mysteries of the book-lovers' cult. And when Hooker heard Worthing speak of the rare first edition of Poe's Tamerlane, he almost fainted with surprise!

"Don't you want to look over father's books, Mr. Hooker," asked Miss Blaythwaite. "You may go in the library as usual, and make yourself at home. I have added a few things myself!"

"No, thank you, I'd rather remain here. Which side do you think will win the polo match to-morrow? Meadowbrook?"

At this, Miss Blaythwaite and Worthing looked at each other in astonishment. Hooker thought he saw a mysterious understanding between them. He became at once insanely jealous of the athletic young man who was discoursing so eloquently of Tamerlane "in boards, uncut."

"Meadowbrook?" persisted Hooker.

"I suppose so," returned Worthing, in an uninterested manner.

Yes, this talk of books had become decidedly distasteful to the once enthusiastic bibliophile.

"By the way, Mr. Hooker," said Miss Blaythwaite, "I've made up my mind about the Abelard missal. Jack and I think it would be a good thing to give it to the Metropolitan Museum."

"I quite agree with you, Miss Blaythwaite," said poor Hooker. "There it would always be safe from fire, and could be seen by the public. It is certainly the proper thing to do."

At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed overjoyed.

When Worthing left, after an interminable time, Robert Hooker sat by her side upon the old Chippendale sofa in her father's library. When she discoursed of books and learning, he would quietly change the subject.

He wanted to hear about herself, and what she had been doing since he saw her last. As for himself—he was going away. He was taking a steamer next Saturday for Europe.

She asked him quietly if he did not want to take a last look at the breviary.

"Damn the breviary!" he said to himself. He did not care particularly about it, but she insisted.

He took the precious volume from its place on the shelf, and together they looked at the marvelous illustrations that traced so vividly the history of the two devoted lovers.

They glanced not at the calendar, or the litany that came first in the breviary, but bent their heads over the lovely miniatures that narrated so touchingly the tragic story.

When they came to the picture showing the final parting of Abelard from his beloved Heloise, Hooker looked at Miss Blaythwaite.

Her eyes were filled with tears.

"Robert," she said tenderly, "I'm not going to present it to the Metropolitan. I'll give it to the Hooker Museum! Then—we both can always enjoy it."

THE EVASIVE PAMPHLET

He was disappointed again!

He sat alone in his office thinking of the auction sale of the day before. A copy of the rare first edition of "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," the immortal story of Edgar Allan Poe, was lost to him and his heirs for ever more.

He had gone to the auction with the virtuous intention of buying it; when the shabby little pamphlet with its brown paper wrappings—printed in Philadelphia in 1843—was offered, the bidding was remarkably spirited. It was finally sold to a distinguished collector for thirty-eight hundred dollars. He had been the underbidder, but what chance had a poor devil of a bibliophile against the wealthy captains of industry? At sales of this character the race is not to the swift, but to the—rich!

Robert Hooker had once owned a copy of this precious volume. This made his disappointment the keener. It was a more interesting example than the one that had just been offered under the hammer of the auctioneer, for it had been a presentation copy with a simple though beautiful inscription written in the delicate handwriting of the poet upon the title-page:

"To Virginia from E. A. P."

This was the very copy the greatest of story-tellers had lovingly given to his wife. Years ago it had mysteriously disappeared from Hooker's office, where he had kept it in a fire-proof, feeling it was more secure there than on the shelves of his library. He sought for it everywhere, offering large rewards for its return, but the evasive little volume never was heard of again.

Hooker was musing over his "defeat" of yesterday in the salesroom when his thoughts reverted to the fate of his own copy. Where was it? What was its history? Its possessor could not seek a purchaser, because the inscription on the title-page would instantly identify it. Had it been destroyed? Was it—

"A gentleman to see you, sir, about an old book!"

He instantly awoke from his reverie. It was his secretary who had spoken.

"Tell him I have no money for such things!" said Hooker.

John Lawrence, his secretary, did not turn away, but waited with the flicker of a smile upon his face. He knew the foibles of his employer. He had been with him for many years. And a really good clerk always knows his master's weaknesses.

"Hold on a minute, John. Perhaps I can give him a few minutes. Tell him to come in."

"Hello, Colonel! What can I do for you this morning?" said Hooker cheerily, to a middle-aged man, erect of figure, who had just entered. He was one of those men who make their living picking up old books, old guns, old papers, old coins, old pictures, old everything. He also, at times, had a faculty of picking up old liquors, which was not good for him. He was known as the "Colonel" because of his military bearing and his interest in the Civil War. He had really been a soldier serving in the glorious and extensive regiment known as the home guard.

"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I've a matter I'd like to speak to you about—but in the strictest confidence. I'm on the track of a really fine book."

At this Hooker smiled. Although in his long and busy life and in his strange wanderings the Colonel had secured a few good things his "finds" generally turned out to be of no value. Hooker had frequently advanced him money to purchase what the Colonel termed "nuggets," but when they were brought to him changed, in the twinkling of an eye, into fool's gold.

"Well, what is it?" said Hooker, rather impatiently, fearing another tug at his purse-strings.

"You've read this morning's papers? The 'Murders in the Rue Morgue' brought at the sale yesterday thirty-eight hundred dol—"

"Enough of that!" retorted Hooker, who was becoming angry. "I never want to hear of that damned book again!"

"But I know where there's another copy," presented the Colonel, weakly.

"So do I. In the British Museum!"

"No, Mr. Hooker. Right here in New York."

"Where?"

"But you're not interested, you just said—"

"Of course I am, you old fool, go on!"

"Well, the book's in an old house down near Washington Square. It'll be difficult to get. Its owner's in jail."

"In jail!"

"Yes. He's serving a stretch—twenty years."

"What for?"

"Murder!"

"Now, Colonel, I hope you didn't come here to amuse me with fairy tales. I'm very busy this morning."

"No. That's straight. He's up for twenty years. He murdered his sweetheart. The court brought in a verdict of manslaughter, so he got a light sentence."

"Well, what's that got to do with the book?"

"Have patience, Mr. Hooker. You know of the Tomlinson case?"

"Never heard of it."

"Impossible, sir! The newspapers were filled with it at the time. Seven years ago every one was talking about it and surely you remember—"

"No, Colonel, seven years ago I was in Europe. Tell me about it."

The Colonel went into details—

In June of 1907 a family by the name of Clarke moved into two rooms in a large, old fashioned residence on Eighth Street, near Fifth Avenue. They were there for less than a month when they gave the landlord notice. They could not remain in the house on account of ghosts! Now everyone believes in ghosts but landlords. It injures their business.

The Clarkes contended that every night in the front room the most mysterious noises were heard; they called in the janitor, but he knew nothing. The strange sounds continued; they were uncanny, inexplicable. The Clarkes moved out and they were succeeded by other nervous and hysterical persons. The landlord in desperation reduced the rent, but still the tenants would not remain.

At last even he, who was sceptical and would not believe in hobgoblins, or ghosts, or spirits, or any of those fantastic creatures that exist outside the material mind, resolved to investigate for himself. He literally camped in the rooms for months and heard not a sound! Every night he determined would be his last and that he would not waste any more of his valuable time over the mystical phantoms of his foolish tenants.

One evening, which he resolved was to be the final one, while he was playing solitaire to pass the tedium of the vigil, he heard a noise in the wall. He turned pale with fear. A cold chill ran up and down his back. A moment later the sound of a falling coin reached his ears and there rolled toward him from the old Georgian fire-place a shining object.

It was a few minutes before he had the courage to pick it up. It was a small gold ring. He examined it carefully and engraved therein were the initials "M. P. from J. L." He put the ring in his pocket, removed the fire dogs, the tongs, the coal-scuttle and the whole paraphernalia of fire-places and looked up the flue. He could see nothing. Although it was a clear night he could not see the stars. Something was in the way....

The finding next day of the poor, bruised body of little Marie Perrin up the chimney of "No. 8" was the sensation of the hour. A horrible crime had been committed, and in an unknown and terrible way. It was Edgar Allan Poe in a new guise and his wonderful stories immediately became popular and new editions of the "Tales" were called for by a new set of readers. Some critics of crime suggested that the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" had been repeated at No. Eight East Eighth Street. The hiding-place of the body was identical with that in the famous story and it was said that the police were on the look-out for apes, gorillas, and other animals, which alone were capable of committing such hideous crimes.

The whole life of poor little Marie was laid bare. Her picture was in every newspaper and her history was given from the day of her birth with remarkable ingenuity. The reporters, with uncontrolled imaginations, turned out from the scanty material at their hands an excellent biographical sketch, that seemed and rang true, which is sufficient for the reading public.

Marie Perrin had disappeared without paying her rent from No. Eight over a year ago. When the agent came to collect the arrears, he found the tenant had departed with all her chattels. This was a libel, for she was in the room but not visible. The detectives, when they investigated into the tragedy and after asking ten thousand questions in a thousand and one places, found out that Marie had a sweetheart and that his name was Richard Tomlinson. He refused to admit his guilt, but after being prodded with the iron-fork of the law, technically known as the "third degree" he broke down and confessed. In a fit of anger he struck her over the head with the brass fire-tongs. He had no intention of killing her, or even harming her, but he had become insanely jealous of another who was paying her attentions. In fact he said he must have been mad at the time, as he did not remember having struck her until she lay before him, quiet and cold upon the floor. After a trial lasting over two weeks, and full of sensational incidents, Tomlinson was sentenced to spend twenty years of his life in prison.

"That's an interesting tale," said Robert Hooker, when the Colonel had stopped speaking, "but what has all this to do with the first edition of Poe's story?"

"Well, you see, Tomlinson was a friend of mine. He told me that, after he had accidentally killed the girl, he was terribly frightened. He did not know what to do with the body. He had a mind to go to the police and confess all, but did not have the courage to do so. He remained in a trance, he thought, for hours, thinking of his fearful crime and the dreadful consequences. While he was in this deep, agonizing study and not knowing what he was doing, he picked up a small book on her reading table. It was 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.' It was the title that attracted him, and some compelling force, what it was he knew not, caused him to read it. He told me that never in his whole life had anything so interested him as that story on that frightful occasion; although pursued by terrible fears he read every word, every syllable of it. The rest you know."

"But, Colonel," said Hooker, with one thought uppermost in his mind, "it might be any edition, not necessarily the first. There have been hundreds of editions published. How do you know what edition it was?"

"It was the first, Mr. Hooker. Tomlinson told me the girl had borrowed it to read and that it belonged to some one who had a mania for old books and who had kept it always under lock and key."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yes."

"Can you get it?"

"Perhaps."

"I shall make it worth your while. How much do you want?"

"All I can get. I'll have to steal it!"

"What!"

"Yes, I'll have to steal it. It cannot be had in any other way. Why do you start?"

"I didn't think you'd have to do that!"

"Yes. You see Tomlinson, when he moved from those furnished rooms, took everything he could carry to his brother's lodgings near Washington Square. The book is in a sealed trunk on the third floor. Tomlinson made his brother promise that this trunk was not to be disturbed under any circumstances until he came out of jail a free man. I've tried in every way—by bribery and everything—but his brother will not touch it. He seems afraid of that old trunk. I'll get it, however, at all costs. Are you with me?"

Hooker was, above everything, a true bibliophile. He instantly answered:

"Yes, Colonel! Go the limit. I'll back you."

The Colonel without another word picked up his hat and left the office.

For three tedious weeks Hooker heard no more of the book or of his curious friend, the Colonel. The whole thing seemed like a tale woven by Poe himself.

Would the book, if it ever was secured, turn out to be a second edition and worthless? Booklovers, after the strange manner of their kind, only cherish the first, the earliest issue, in the same state as it came from the master's hand, unrevised and with all the errors uncorrected. They do not care for new and more elegant editions. Hooker grew restless as the weeks rolled by, and still no Colonel.

One morning, as he was looking over his mail, a gentleman was announced. Then, tottering into the office, with his arm in a sling and a patch over his left eye, came the gallant Colonel.

"Why, Colonel, what's the matter?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

"But your arm and your—"

"That's my affair, Mr. Hooker. I've come to secure the reward of my labors. I've got the book," he said in triumph,—"I told you I'd get it."

"Where is it?"

"Here in my pocket. Look at it. It's a superb copy!"

The Colonel laid before the astonished eyes of Richard Hooker the priceless first edition of Poe's marvelous story. It was in the original brown printed wrappers, just as it was published. With trembling hands he grasped the book; he turned the first page and gasped. A startled cry broke from his lips. The Colonel at once noticed his pallor. He did not dream that an old book would affect even the most ardent bibliophile in this manner. In all his experience of forty years he had never seen anyone so overcome at the sight of a dingy pamphlet.

There, upon the title-page, Hooker read the tender inscription written many generations ago, with which the most imaginative of American poets had presented his greatest story to his loving wife. It was his own copy, returned like bread upon the waters. Hooker was speechless. He went over to his check book and handed the Colonel the equivalent of three thousand dollars. The Colonel retired, murmuring his thanks.

The book lay upon Hooker's desk. Here was a new problem, worthy of M. Dupin himself. Question after question came into his excited mind to depart unanswered. Who had stolen it? and how? Why had it been taken? How had Tomlinson secured it? and what, above all, had it to do with Marie Perrin?

Hooker remained there, gazing at the pamphlet for hours. It fascinated him horribly. The luncheon hour went by and still he sat staring intently at its faded covers. Would he ever solve the riddle?

His mind was still at work on the problem when he was interrupted by his secretary.

"It's closing time, sir. Is there anything you want before I go?"

"Nothing, John, thank you."

The secretary turned to depart. He drew back suddenly!

"The book! Mr. Hooker, the book! Where did you get that!"

Robert Hooker looked at his confidential assistant. His face was the color of the whitest parchment. His breath came in gasps and cold drops of perspiration were visible upon his forehead.

"I bought it to-day," said Hooker, quietly. "It once belonged to me—and Marie Perrin."

"She was my—"

John Lawrence did not finish the sentence; his face was twitching and he was evidently suffering from the keenest nervous excitement.

"Tell me about it, John," said Hooker kindly. "You seem to know something of it."

"I do, Mr. Hooker. You'll forgive me, won't you? I didn't mean to do anything wrong."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Well, years ago, on your return from Europe, you questioned me about that book. I was the only one who had access to the safe and knew the combination. I told you I knew nothing about it—that perhaps it had been mislaid before your departure for London. I lied, for I had taken it. I'd no intention of stealing it; I did not even know it was particularly valuable. I read the story one day when I was alone, with no work to do. It was the best tale I'd ever read. I was absorbed by it. I could not get the horrible plot out of my head."

"Yes, John, go on. Where does Marie come in?"

"I was engaged to her. I had known her for years. She came from Montpelier, Vermont, where we both were born. One day I told her of the story. She wanted to read it. Not thinking it any harm, I loaned it to her. She stopped for it one evening on her way home. I never saw her after that. I tried every way to find her, without avail. She had disappeared from her rooms on Eighth Street and I never heard of her again until the frightful news came out. Detectives came to see me. My name was in the papers once or twice at the time, and the questions they asked me were terrible. I proved an alibi; they had fixed the crime on Tomlinson, who, unknown to me, was uppermost in her affections. It was a bitter awakening. I've never been the same since. I think of her every night of my life—I've now told you all and I shall resign and leave you at once. You can have no more need of me."

"Stay, John. I forgive you. You've suffered enough. Go home—and come down to-morrow, as usual."

The book still lay upon the desk. This time he would take it home to keep it in his library among his most valuable possessions. For surely it was the most interesting copy of the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" in existence! Hooker turned the leaves to see whether, after its wanderings, all the pages were intact—"collating" it, as bibliophiles love to term this delightful occupation. Yes, it was perfect—just as when it had so mysteriously disappeared years ago. But, hold,—what were the brown, reddish finger-marks on the back cover? Hooker did not have to be told that it was the life-blood of poor Marie Perrin.

THE GREAT DISCOVERY

He was considered by all his friends thrice a fool. First, he was engaged to be married; second, he was a speculator in stocks; and third, he was a book-lover. Some condoned the first offence, others pardoned the second, which was considered a weakness, and all universally condemned the last!

John Libro had money on July 28th, 1914. On July 29 he did not possess a cent. The War caused it all. When New Haven dropped to fifty and Reading to seventy, John Libro's fortune shrank with them and he was left high and dry with nothing but the advice of his friends, a little jewelry, some clothing, and a few old books!

Libro went home, made an inventory, and counted the change in his pocket He was thirty-five years old, big, healthy, good-natured, and irrepressible. Here he was face to face with starvation. He grimly smiled, for it was at any rate a new experience. He sat down by the little bookcase, forgot his cares and his creditors, and took out his beloved friends. He tenderly fondled the first edition of Elia, dipped into Beaumont and Fletcher, and took solace from the "Pleasures of Memory." When he looked at his watch, it was eight o'clock. Two hours had glided away in the company of his morocco-clad companions.

It was then that he thought of Ethel. He would go to her at once and unfold his story. He told her in a few words that he was ruined and could not marry her. This made her more than ever determined to marry him. She loved him and could not allow such a small thing as money to interfere with their plans. The more he insisted, the more determined she became. At last they reached a compromise—he would put the matter squarely up to her father. Mr. Edwards was called from his study.

"Mr. Edwards," he began, "I suppose you read of what happened to-day in the stock-market—"

"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Edwards replied quickly, "what of it?"

"Well, I was long on New Haven and Reading—"

"Speculating again, have you?"

"Yes, and I'm broke, and Ethel would not allow me to break off the engagement until I spoke to you."

"She is a foolish girl. You are released, and I think it a good thing for my daughter."

"Perhaps some day when I go to work—" poor Libro pleaded.

"Work! Work!" retorted Mr. Edwards, "who ever heard of a stock broker who worked!"

Without another word they parted—and Libro returned to the drawing-room to pay, with many kisses, his farewell to Ethel.

When at last he was on the street he thought that poverty was the most terrible thing in the world—it destroyed in a moment love and happiness. And yet he was no longer thrice a fool—for he was not engaged, he was no longer a speculator, and, of course, he must cease to be a collector. While he was meditating about this curious effect of poverty, which had changed over night a fool into a philosopher, a beggar approached him. He felt in his pockets and handed him a quarter. Libro then went on his way, for the humor of the incident appealed to him.

The next day he tried to secure a position. He asked all his friends, who could do nothing "on account of the war."

He then tried the department stores, the banks, the hotels, the theatres—everywhere. No one would give a position to a stock-broker. Mr. Edwards was right!

But he must live—the situation had become not so fantastic. He would sell everything—his father's watch, his jewelry, his clothing, everything but his books. Those he would not part with.

On the corner of Thirty-fifth and Broadway was a pawnshop—he had passed it hundreds of times, but had never thought of entering. Half of it was a store where the pledges were sold; each piece of jewelry had a huge white card on which ran some such legend—"Former price $1,000—now $400." The other half of the shop was where the real "business" was conducted, and it was here that its patrons lost their patrimony. Libro was ashamed to enter; he hesitated two or three times and then returned to his rooms. He picked up old "Omar" in its paper covers, and with the imprint of Bernard Quaritch, 1859, for it was a first edition and much beloved. He then read of wines and the joys of heaven—he could not afford to buy those full orient vintages, but, nevertheless, in the quietude of his rooms, he drank deep.

Two days later, with the courage of hunger, Libro visited the locality of this American Mont de Piété. But he was again afraid to enter. He seemed to see all his friends near him, watching him. He thought they smiled when they acknowledged his trembling salute. Broadway seemed to contain myriads of his acquaintances. He then thought with dread of the interior of the place, with its poor, degraded, perhaps half-clothed men and women, forced to pledge their last precious possession. He walked away, but returned, laughing at his cowardice. This was also to be a new experience. He resolved to walk quickly up to the door and enter before anyone would notice him.

He received a shock when he passed the portals. If he observed acquaintances on the outside, here on the inside, he met friends! All Wall Street seemed to be gathered. It was more like a meeting of the Down Town Club. "Hello, Jack! Why, if that's not Libro!" and "The Baby Member!" greeted him from all sides. Before the well-worn counter was the flower of New York's financial set, pawning their diamonds and their good-repute. The wire houses and the bucket shops and the legitimate offices were all closed, and, by a marvelous change, as in the twinkling of an eye, the principals, and not their customers, were putting up "more margin!"

John Libro entered properly into the spirit of the occasion. He laughed with the others when one received $50 on a diamond ring that cost two hundred. He roared in harmony with the crowd when one well known Broadway habitué objected to the twelve dollars proffered on a gold watch. It was all too funny for anything! It was now his turn. He felt sick as he took from his tie an emerald pin, the gift of his mother.

"How much do you want on this?" asked the proprietor. It was a cold voice which went through him like steel. He took an instant dislike to this man who was the proprietor himself, Geoffrey Steinman, a king among his brethren of this old and honorable profession.

"Seventy-five dollars," said Libro.

"This is no time for jokes," Steinman retorted. "I shall advance you fifteen dollars, and not a cent more."

"But it cost a hundred at Tiffany's!"

"Fifteen dollars—my time is valuable."

It was the same old story. John Libro received the money and departed. He was bitter at the world and particularly at the cold, keen gentleman who presided over the destinies of the shop with the glittering windows. He grew bitter when his watch (his father's gift), his fob, his gold card-case, his medals and finally his overcoat went into the tiger's maw. And every time he remonstrated with him, cursed him, or implored him, Steinman remained the same—heartless, brusque, cutting, satirical and, what was worse than all, polite. "Damn his politeness," gasped Libro—"I can do nothing at all with him when he is polite!"

This hate ripened and broke out anew when each article was pawned. "If I could only get even"—he exclaimed hopelessly. He had not a chance in the world, he thought. For a thousand times he said goodby to a dear memento of his parents or a remembrance of his youth. At last he had pledged everything.

Libro had not heard from Ethel for months, although it seemed like ages to him! On the cold afternoon that he had pawned his overcoat he went to his rooms and thought if it would not be better to end it all, quietly and decently. He thought for a long time. He went to the little bookcase and picked up an old edition of Boethius on the "Consolations of Philosophy," and only the title consoled him. He, however, found many long-tried friends, and their broad margins and blue and crimson morocco covers made him forget that man was made to mourn. His first editions of the poets made him oblivious to his condition and he lived once again on high Parnassus.

Libro was looking over the Poems of John Keats, published in 1817, when a catalogue slip fell out. On the slip it stated that a copy had once sold for five hundred dollars! This, then, was meat and drink for him! He would sell it! He could live for months on poor Keats. But his soul revolted. He was not a cannibal. He could not live off the flesh of his own.

But at last he was compelled to return to Steinman. He wrapped up the precious volume tenderly, affectionately. He took it bravely, for was he not offering at the sacrifice the dearest of his possessions? He gently, timidly, unwrapt before the pawnbroker the little volume, awaiting expectantly the admiration that always followed its appearance. But, alas, he was not among book-lovers.

"No books!" exclaimed Steinman. "I've got stuck on them once or twice before. Not one cent!"

"You,—you—" but Libro could not find words to explain his hatred. He would have killed him had he a weapon near.

"Don't you know that book has sold for five hundred dollars at auction," exclaimed Libro.

"Then sell it at auction," replied Steinman, politely. As the poor and crushed bibliophile turned to go, the proprietor interrupted him.

"Wait. If you are so interested in that old plunder, perhaps you would like to see this."

Steinman held in his hands a dingy old volume. Libro could not resist. An unknown force compelled him to look at it. With hatred consuming him, he nevertheless, like a true bibliophile, received from his enemy the book. He opened it.

"Why, they are Shakespeare quartos!" he almost shouted, and then stopped suddenly.

The proprietor was looking at him narrowly. Libro's heart had almost stopped beating. There was the long lost quarto of "Titus Andronicus," 1594, and a perfect first edition of "Hamlet"! There were others in the volume, a veritable treasure trove. It was, in truth, a great discovery!

"What's it worth?" said Steinman.

"Something to a collector," replied Libro, honestly: "nothing to you."

"Well, if you know anyone who wants the old thing he can have it for ten dollars. I once advanced that amount on it. Since then I say, No Books!"

John Libro by a superhuman effort controlled himself.

"Steinman, I need money for food. You already have everything valuable I possess,—but this."

He took from his finger a ring. It had been his mother's wedding ring. It was the last that remained to him of his parents' legacy.

"How much will you give me on this?" he said, trembling. His very life depended upon Steinman's answer. He held his breath.

"A little less than gold-value," said Steinman. He threw it carelessly on the scales.

"Ten dollars and thirty-seven cents."

Without further ado Steinman counted out the money and Libro departed. He, however, went out one door and came in by another. It was the first time that he had entered the half of the establishment where the unredeemed merchandise is sold. On this side he was a patron and not to be patronized.

"How much for that old book?" said Libro boldly.

"Ten dollars," answered Steinman in a surprised tone. This was a new dodge, a customer pledging one article to obtain money to purchase another!

It was Libro's turn now; but he was not used to the game. "I shall give you five dollars. Not a cent more."

"No. Ten dollars or nothing."

"All right. I'll take it; wrap it up."

He counted out the money and left. Steinman felt uneasy. He thought he saw the flicker of an unholy smile on Libro's face, as he passed through the swinging doors.

It is almost unnecessary to state that Libro sold the book—the only book he ever parted with—for a fabulous sum—more than its weight in gold,—and for many thousands of dollars. A noted collector purchased it immediately, and it is now the chief attraction of his wonderful library.

With the money jingling in his pocket he returned to the scene of his former misery. He was to redeem his pledges with the broker's own money.

"Steinman," he said, "collect all my things. I shall pay what I owe and take them with me."

"I congratulate you, Mr. Libro, on your return to fortune," replied Steinman affably.

"I want to thank you, Steinman."

"Thank me! Why?"

"Because of the old book," said Libro, politely. "I sold it to-day for thirty thousand dollars!"

In a joyous mood John Libro called upon Ethel Edwards. The story of "the Shakespeare Find" was in the evening's papers. No one was more glad to see him than Ethel's father, who welcomed him like an old friend. That night he mused as he walked home: "I am no longer a stock-broker, I am engaged to Ethel, and I can still collect books. I am a fool; and I glory in it!"

THE FIFTEEN JOYS OF MARRIAGE

He was showing the distinguished guest through his magnificent library. He exhibited with pride his treasures, telling an interesting tale about this volume, and his merry adventures about that. In glass-covered exhibition cases were displayed some of his greater rarities and the colors of their morocco coverings gleamed and glowed in the light. At one end of the spacious room was a case with bronze mountings, and within reposed a volume bound in old olive levant, powdered with the bees and other devices so often used by Nicolas Eve, binder to his Majesty Francis the First. The visitor asked about the volume that was so superbly housed, and begged Mr. Henry Stirling to give its history.

"Pray examine it," he replied, taking the volume with the greatest care from the case. On its back, in letters of gold, mellowed by age, was its title: "Les Quinze Joyes de Mariage." "Ah, that is indeed rare!" exclaimed the visitor, "and its binding is marvelous. But hold, it is rubbed in one corner. Some vandal did that! It is a shame such a treasure should have been used so damnably!"

"It is for that reason, sir," Stirling replied, "that it is my most beloved volume. I value it above all the books in my library. This is its history:—

"Some fifteen years ago I met at a house party a lady to whom I was instantly attracted. She was handsome, with high coloring, and the most glorious hair. We met often thereafter, and a year later she became my wife. We lived for some time most happily together. Occasionally we had petty disputes that always ended in a victory for both of us!

"About twelve years ago, attracted by a great book sale, I started to form this library, which has been the passion of my life. I read all the catalogues, became skilled in bibliography, lived in the bookshops; spent all my time collating and going over my precious volumes. In the evenings, instead of talking to my wife about the Ives' coming ball, or a problem in bridge, or the newest shades of silk, I pored over the catalogues which came to me from all parts of the world. My wife said nothing at first, but when one bookcase was added to another, crowding out the little Sheraton writing tables, and the bijou cabinets, she objected mildly, 'Why bring all this trash into the house? And besides you never read them. I suppose they don't cost you much. I loaned a few to one of my friends yesterday.'

"I winced; but said nothing.

"Gradually I became absorbed in the pursuit. Other collectors—men after my own heart—rich, and always wearing the oddest clothes—so my good wife said—came to visit me. We would stay up far into the night relating our experiences, telling wonderful stories of how we secured our rarest volumes, and remarking about the prices, which seemed always soaring! My wife knew at last that these old books cost a great deal of money; that I would spend a hundred dollars for an old almanac or an Aldus, while I objected to the forty dollars she paid for a hat. She said she would stand it no longer. I remonstrated, but in vain. She remarked that I had changed—that I no longer loved her. This was not true; I loved her as I always did—but I would not allow anyone to dictate to me.

"However, I displayed no longer the little morocco things that I had bought, but brought them home surreptitiously, placing them in the corners of the bookcase. I concealed them in my newspaper of an evening, or had them sent home when my wife was out shopping, or visiting her friends. Sometimes she would catch me flagrante delicto, as I would stealthily remove my beloved from its brown wrapping-paper; or catch me napping with a first edition that she was sure she had not seen before.

"The situation grew intolerable. I could not bear to have some one who had promised to obey me, taunting me at every turn, remorselessly dropping an Elzevir on the floor, or shattering my nerves by insolently showing me a receipted bill for a presentation copy of 'Endymion.' I tried to be gentle with her, to reason with her, to tell her what a scholarly thing I was doing,—but it was of no avail. She became actually jealous of my books. She looked with distrust at every parcel that arrived; she was suspicious of everything that had the appearance of a book.

"At first she was only mildly oppressive; she now became severe, scolding continually, making my life a burden. She said my love of books was unnatural, wicked, unspeakable. I could stand it no longer; I could not live with a woman who treated me in so cruel a way. When I told her this she was docile at first, but the fire broke out anew at some new victory of mine in the auction rooms, which one of my spiteful friends told her about. Matthews was always jealous of me, because I had more courage than he and snatched the uncut 'Comus' from him when it was almost within his grasp.

"I tried no longer to bear with my wife—she was a vixen, a mad woman, a very devil. I resolved to divorce her—but on what grounds? I could not think of a single charge that could be placed before a jury,—American juries generally consisted of the most stupid and unimaginative men. My wife said she ought to secure the action on the grounds of infidelity,—that I loved my first folio of Shakespeare more than I did her!

"Things came to a climax at last. The famous library of Richard Appleton was to be sold at auction. I was intensely excited, as you can imagine. I read the catalogue item by item, word by word. I marked with ink the things I most needed and determined to buy a few exquisite volumes even at the risk of bankruptcy. And there was 'Les Quinze Joyes de Mariage,' the first edition in the superb binding made by Nicolas Eve for Diane de Poitiers. I had resolved to purchase it many years ago when Appleton wrested it from me at the Amherst sale. I had even waited for his death knowing it would again come upon the market. I resolved to have it at all costs. The eventful day arrived. I went to the rooms in person. The little volume started at one hundred dollars and rose to three thousand. It was already beyond my means. I just had to have it. I nodded. There was no other bid.