must save her," she told herself. "I must. I must!" 

Even with this resolve came a perplexing problem. Why had the child taken the book? Had she done so at the old man's direction? That seemed incredible. Could an old man, tottering to his grave, revealing in spite of his shabby clothing a one-time more than common intellect and a breeding above the average, stoop to theft, the theft of a book? And could he, above all, induce an innocent child to join him in the deed? It was unthinkable. 

"That man," she thought to herself, "why he had a noble bearing, like a soldier, almost, certainly like a gentleman. He reminded me of that great old general of his own nation who said to his men when the enemy were all but upon Paris: 'They must not pass.' Could he stoop to stealing?" 

These problems remained all unsolved, for on that night no slightest footfall was heard in the silent labyrinth. The next night was the same, and the next. Lucile was growing weary, hollow-eyed with her vigil. She had told Florence nothing, yet she had surprised her roommate often looking at her in a way which said, "Why are you out so late every night? Why don't you share things with your pal?" And she wanted to, but something held her back. 

Thursday night came with a raging torrent of rain. It was not her night at the library. She would gladly have remained in her cozy room, wrapped in a kimono, studying, yet, as the chimes pealed out the notes of Auld Lang Syne, telling that the hour of ten had arrived, she hurried into her rubbers and ulster to face the tempest. 

Wild streaks of lightning faced her at the threshold. A gust of wind seized her and hurried her along for an instant, then in a wild, freakish turn all but threw her upon the pavement. A deluge of rain, seeming to extinguish the very street light, beat down upon her. 

"How foolish I am!" she muttered. "She would not come on a night like this." 

And yet she did come. Lucile had not been in her hiding place more than a half hour when she caught the familiar pit-pat of footsteps. "This time she shall not escape me," she whispered, as with bated breath and cushioned footstep she tiptoed toward the spot where the remaining Shakespeare rested. 

Now she was three stacks away. As she paused to listen she knew the child was at the same distance in the opposite direction. She moved one stack nearer, then listened again. 

She 

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