The Secret Mark Part 6

He paused as if in reflection, then said suddenly:

"Do you think one would ever be justified in protecting a person whom he knew had stolen something?"

Lucile started. What did he mean? Did he suspect something? Had he perhaps seen her enter the library on one of those nights of her watching? Did he suspect her? For a second the color rushed flaming to her cheeks. But, fortunately, he was looking away. The next second she was her usual calm self.

"Why, yes," she said steadily, "I think one might, if one felt that there were circ.u.mstances about the apparent theft which were not clearly understood.

"You know," she said as a sudden inspiration seized her, "we've just finished reading Victor Hugo's story of Jean Valjean in French.

Translating a great story a little each day, bit by bit, is such a wonderful way of doing it. And that is the greatest story that ever was written. Have you read it?"

He nodded.

"Well, then you remember how that poor fellow stole a loaf of bread to feed his sister's hungry children and how, without trying to find out about things and be just, they put him in prison. Then, because he tried to get out, they kept him there years and years. Then when they at last let him out, in spite of it all, after he had come into contact with a beautiful, unselfish old man, he became one of the most wonderful characters the world may hope to know. Just think how wonderful his earlier years, wasted in prison, might have been if someone had only tried a little to understand."

"You're good," smiled Harry. "When I get arrested I'll have you for my lawyer."

Lucile, once more quite herself, laughed heartily. Then she suddenly sobered.

"If I were you," she said in a low tone, "I shouldn't worry too much about that set of Shakespeare. Someway I have an idea that it will show up in its own good time."

Harry shot her a quick look, then as he turned to walk away, said in a tone of forced lightness:

"Oh! All right."

The following night they were free to return to the scene of the mystery, the cottage on dreary Tyler street where the old man and the strange child lived. A light shone out of the window with the torn shade as they loitered along in front of the place as before. Much to their surprise, not ten minutes had pa.s.sed when the child stole forth.

"We were just in time," breathed Florence.

"Dressed just as she was on the first night I saw her," Lucile whispered as the child pa.s.sed them.

"She's making for the elevated station this time," said Florence as they hurried along after her. "That means a long trip and you are tired. Why don't you let me follow her alone?"

"Why I--"

Lucile cut her speech short to grip her companion's arm.

"Florence," she whispered excitedly, "did you hear a footstep behind us?"

"Why, yes, I--"

Florence hesitated. Lucile broke in:

"There was one. I am sure of it, and just now as I looked about there was no one in sight. You don't think someone could suspect--be shadowing us?"

"Of course not."

"It might be that woman who tried to carry the child away."

"I think not. That was in another part of the city. Probably just nothing at all."

"Yes, yes, there it is now. I hear it. Look about quick."

"No one in sight," said Florence. "It's your nerves. You'd better go home and get a good night's sleep."

They parted hurriedly at the station. Florence swung onto the train boarded by the child, a train which she knew would carry her to the north side, directly away from the university.

"Probably be morning before I get in," she grumbled to herself. "What a wild chase!"

Yet, as she stole a glance now and then at the child, who, all unconscious of her scrutiny, sat curled up in the corner of a near-by seat, she felt that, after all, she was worth the effort being made for her.

"Whosoever saveth a soul from destruction," she whispered to herself as the train rattled on over the river on its way north.

In the meantime Lucile had boarded a south-bound car. She was not a little troubled by the thought of those footsteps behind them on the sidewalk. She knew it was not her nerves.

"Someone _was_ following us!" she whispered to herself. "I wonder who and why."

She puzzled over it all the way home; was puzzling over it still when she left her car at the university.

Somewhat to her surprise she saw Harry Brock leave the same train. He appeared almost to be avoiding her but when she called to him he turned about and smiled.

"So glad to have someone to walk those five lonely blocks with," she smiled.

"Pleasure mutual," he murmured, but he seemed ill at ease.

Lucile glanced at him curiously.

"He can't think I've got a crush on him," she told herself. "Our friends.h.i.+p's had too much of the ordinary in it for that. I wonder what is the matter with him."

Conversation on the way to the university grounds rambled along over commonplaces. Each studiously avoided any reference to the mystery of the missing books.

Lucile was distinctly relieved as he left her at the dormitory door.

"Well," she heaved a sigh, "whatever could have come over him? He has always been so frank and fine. I wonder if he suspects--but, no, how could he?"

As she hung her wrap in the corner of her room, her eye fell upon the papier-mache lunch box. Her hand half reached for it, then she drew it back and flung herself into a chair.

"To-morrow," she murmured. "I'm so tired."

Fifteen minutes later she was in her bed fast asleep, dreaming of her pal, and in that dream she saw her rattling on and on and on forever through the night.

CHAPTER VII THE VANIs.h.i.+NG PORTLAND CHART

Florence was not rattling on and on through the night as Lucile dreamed.

Some two miles from the heart of the city her journey on the elevated came to a halt. The child left the car and went bounding down the steps.