he is, her grandfather or what, I haven't the faintest notion." "Anyway I'm glad we did it," she said. "Did what?" panted Florence, who by this time was going through her morning exercises. "Saved the child." "Yes, so am I." The papier-mache lunch box remained in its place in the dark corner when they went to breakfast. Both girls had completely forgotten it. Had Lucile dreamed what it contained she would not have passed it up for a thousand breakfasts. Since she didn't, she stepped out into the bright morning sunshine, and drinking in deep breaths of God's fresh air, gave thanks that she was alive. The day passed as all schooldays pass, with study, lectures, laboratory work, then dinner as evening comes. In the evening paper an advertisement in the "Lost, Strayed or Stolen" column caught her eye. It read: "REWARD "Will pay $100.00 reward for the return of a small copy of The Compleat Angler which disappeared from the Morrow Book Shop on November 3." It was signed by Frank Morrow. "Why, that's strange!" she murmured. "I do believe that was the book he showed me only yesterday, the little first edition which was worth sixteen hundred dollars. How strange!" A queer sinking sensation came over her. "I--I wonder if she could have taken it," she whispered, "that child?" No, no," she whispered emphatically after a moment's thought. "And, yet, there was the gargoyle bookmark in the inside cover, the same as in our Shakespeare. How strange! It might be--and, yet, one can never tell." That evening was Lucile's regular period at the library, so, much as she should have liked delving more deeply into the mystery which had all but taken possession of her, she was obliged to bend over a desk checking off books. Working with her was Harry Brock, a fellow student. Harry was the kind of fellow one speaks of oftenest as a "nice boy." Clean, clear-cut, carefully dressed, studious, energetic, and accurate, he set an example which was hard to follow. He had taken a brotherly interest in Lucile from the start and had helped her over many hard places in the library until she learned her duties. Shortly after she had come in he paused by her desk and said in a quiet tone: "Do you know, I'm worried about the disappearance of that set of Shakespeare. Sort of gives our section a long black mark. Can't see where it's disappeared to." Lucile drew in a long breath. What was he driving at? Did he suspect? Did he-- "If I wasn't so sure our records were perfect," he broke in on her mental questioning, "I'd say it was tucked away somewhere and would turn up. But we've all been careful. It just can't be here." 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
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