was premeditated. They coolly plotted the return to the narrow street where the mysterious cottage stood. Nothing short of a desire to serve someone younger and weaker than herself could have induced Lucile to return to that region, the very thought of which sent a cold shiver running down her spine.

As for Florence, she was a devoted chum of Lucile. It was enough that Lucile wished her to go. Other interests might develop later; for the present, this was enough.

So, on the following night, a night dark and cloudy but with no rain, they stole forth from the hall to make their way down town.

They had decided that they would go to the window of the torn shade and see what they might discover, but, on arriving at the scene, decided that there was too much chance of detection.

"We'll just walk up and down the street," suggested Lucile. "If she comes out we'll follow her and see what happens. She may go back to the university for more books."

"You don't think she'd dare?" whispered Florence.

"She returned once, why not again?"

"There are no more Shakespeares."

"But there are other books."

"Yes."

They fell into silence. The streets were dark. It grew cold. It was a cheerless task. Now and again a person passed them. Two of them were men, noisy and drunken.

"I--I don't like it," shivered Lucile, "but what else is there to do?"

"Go in and tell them they have our books and must give them up."

"That wouldn't solve anything."

"It would get our books back."

"Yes, but--"

Suddenly Lucile paused, to place a hand on her companion's arm. A slight figure had emerged from the cottage.

"It's the child," she whispered. "We must not seem to follow. Let's cross the street."

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