Chapter XIII: In the Mystery Room at Night

Much to her surprise, just when she had expected to be trudging back to the station alone, Lucile found herself seated by a table in the mystery room. She was sipping a delicious cup of hot chocolate and talking to the mystery child and her mysterious godfather. Every now and again she paused to catch her breath. It was hard for her to realize that she was in the mystery room of the mysterious cottage on Tyler street. Yet there she certainly was. The child had invited her in.

A dim, strangely tinted light cast dark shadows over everything. The strange furniture took on grotesque forms. The titles of the books along the wall gleamed out in a strange manner.

For a full five minutes the child talked to the old man in French. He exclaimed now and then, but other than that took no part in the conversation.

When she had finished, he held out a thin, bony hand to Lucile and said in perfect English:

"Accept my thanks for what you have done to protect this poor little one, my pretty Marie. You are a brave girl and should have a reward. But, alas, I have little to give save my books and they are an inheritance, an inheritance thrice removed. They were my great-grandfather's and have descended direct to me. One is loath to part with such treasure."

"There is no need for any reward," said Lucile quickly. "I did it because I was interested in the child. But," with a sudden inspiration, "if you wish to do me a favor, tell me the story of your life."

The man gave her a quick look.

"You are so--so old," she hastened to add, "and so venerable, so soldier-like, so like General Joffre. Your life must have been a wonderful one."

"Ah, yes," the old man settled back in his chair. As if to brush a mist from before his eyes, he made a waving motion with his hand. "Ah, yes, it has been quite wonderful, that is, I may say it once was.

"I was born near a little town named Gondrecourt in the province of Meuse in France. There was a small chateau, very neat and beautiful, with a garden behind it, with a bit of woods and broad acres for cattle and grain. All that was my father's. It afterwards became mine.

"In one room of the chateau were many, many ancient volumes, some in French, some in English, for my father was a scholar, as also he educated me to be.

"These books were the cream of many generations, some dating back before the time of Columbus."

Lucile, thinking of the book of ancient Portland charts, allowed her gaze for a second to stray to the shelf where it reposed.

Again the man threw her a questioning look, but once more went on with his narrative of his life in far-off France.

"Of all the treasures of field, garden, woods or chateau, the ones most prized by me were those ancient books. So, year after year I guarded them well, guarded them until an old man, in possession of all that was once my father's, I used to sit of an evening looking off at the fading hills at eventide with one of those books in my lap.

"Then came the war." Again his hand went up to dispel the imaginary mist. "The war took my two sons. They never came back. It took my three grandsons. We gave gladly, for was it not our beloved France that was in danger? They, too, never returned."

The old man's hand trembled as he brushed away the imaginary mist.

"I borrowed money to give to France. I mortgaged my land, my cattle, my chateau; only my treasure of books I gave no man a chance to take. They must be mine until I died. They of all the treasures I must keep.

"One night," his voice grew husky, "one night there came a terrible explosion. The earth rocked. Stones of the castle fell all about the yard. The chateau was in ruins. It was a bomb from an airplane.

"Someway the library was not touched. It alone was safe. How thankful I was that it was so. It was now all that was left.

"I took my library to a small lodging in the village. Then, when the war was ended, I packed all my books in strong boxes and started for Paris."

He paused. His head sank upon his breast. His lips quivered. It was as if he were enduring over again some great sorrow.

"Perhaps," he said after a long time, "one is foolish to grieve over what some would say is a trifle compared to other losses. But one comes to love books. They are his very dear friends. With them he shares his great pleasures. In times of sorrow they console him. Ah, yes, how wonderful they are, these books?" His eyes turned toward the shelves.

Then, suddenly, his voice changed. He hastened on. He seemed to desire to have done with it. One might have believed that there was something he was keeping back which he was afraid his lips might speak.

"I came to America," he said hoarsely, "and here I am in your great city, alone save for this blessed child, and--and my books--some of my books--most of my books."

Again he was silent. The room fell into such a silence that the very breathing of the old man sounded out like the exhaust of an engine. Somewhere in another room a clock ticked. It was ghostly.

Shaking herself free from the spell of it, Lucile said, "I--I think I must go."

"No! No!" cried the old man. "Not until you have seen some of my treasures, my books."

Leading her to the shelves, he took down volume after volume. He placed them in her hands with all the care of a salesman displaying rare and fragile china.

She looked at the outside of some; then made bold to open the covers and peep within. They were all beyond doubt very old and valuable. But one fact stood out in her mind as she finally bade them good night, stood out as if embossed upon her very soul: In the inside upper corner of the cover of every volume, done on expensive, age-browned paper, there was the same gargoyle, the same letter L as had been in the other mysterious volumes.

"The gargoyle's secret," she whispered as she came out upon the dark, damp streets. "The gargoyle's secret. I wonder what it is!"

Then she started as if in fear that the gargoyle were behind her, about to spring at her from the dark.