at the windows, which were
of the same sort as those in the attic, close under the eaves, and shut in
by a pattern of ironwork. All around the walls stood bookcases, filled
with a large collection of books, the greater proportion of them of an
age suggestive, to the inexperienced eye, of worthlessness, to the more
discerning, of value. An antique desk and a few straight-backed chairs
were all the other furnishings of the room, but of these it needed none.
Even in its dust-covered condition it was a room to command
respectful consideration.
As Jarvis came in, Max was studying the rows of books. He turned
about with a small calf-bound volume in his hand, and his eye fell on
Jarvis, entering.
"Jarve," he exclaimed, "I believe this is treasure-trove, sure enough! If
this isn't a 'first edition,' I'll eat the book, covers and all!"
Jarvis hurried to his side. He took the book, examined the fly-leaf, and
turned its pages. His eyes lighted with interest. "Of course it is!" he
declared. "And by the looks of them, there are plenty more. How on
earth do they come to be here? This is a gold mine that beats the
mahogany sideboard out of sight."
"It's more than I know. Uncle Maxwell was no book-lover, as far as I've
ever heard. Perhaps Uncle Tim can tell, though he's on mother's side,
and never was here much."
Bob's eyes were round with delight. He did not know much about
books, but the flush on Sally's cheeks and the excitement in Max's
voice were enough for him. He could not resist giving his elder brother
a rap on the back.
"How about the dead beetles now, Max?" he exulted.
Alec was poking in the pigeon-holes of the desk. There were no papers
to be found except one bundle of letters, yellow with age. In one of the
drawers, there were a few old daguerreo-types in velvet cases and a
yellowed meer-schaum pipe.
"'Eliphalet Lane, Esquire,'" read Sally, from the addresses on the letters,
which were written on the folded outer sheet of the letters themselves.
"Why, I know who he was. He was Uncle Maxwell's elder brother. He
lived with them all his life. He died before we were born, but I've heard
father tell about him. He was a queer old man when father was a boy.
This must be his collection."
"And Uncle Maxwell didn't think enough of it to take it to town with
him--just locked it up and left it." This was Max's theory. "Uncle
Maxwell knew nothing about books and cared less; he was all for
business."
"Luckily for you. This must be worth a good deal, if you care to sell it,"
said Jarvis, who, close by one of the odd windows, was studying the
fine text of a set of English dramatists.
Sally walked over and gently took the books out of his hand. "Jarvis
Burnside," said she, decidedly, "the value of this collection is nothing
beside the value of your eyes. Put on your goggles, and don't look at
another line of type!"
CHAPTER III
THE APARTMENT OVERFLOWS
The telephone bell in the Lanes' apartment rang sharply. It had rung
once before, but Sally, half-asleep on the couch in the middle of a
warm April morning, had not roused enough to notice. She moved
reluctantly toward it. Max's voice speaking urgently brought her back
to her senses with a jump.
"Sally, where on earth are you? I've just had a wire from the Chases
that they're coming through, and will stop off to see us. We'll have to
put them up somehow. Of course they don't know how we're fixed, but
they'll find out."
"Oh, Max!" Sally's tones were dismayed. "Why, we can't!"
"We'll have to. What would you have me do--wire them not to stop?
Besides, I couldn't get them. They've left the place they wired
from--reach here to-night at nine. You'll have to have some kind of
supper for them."
"But, Max--where--"
"Oh, figure it out somehow--you can, you know. I haven't a minute
more to talk--inspector's here--everybody busy--" and the click of the
receiver in Sally's ear ended the interview.
The Chases! They were young married people, who had been
neighbours and schoolmates of the Lanes. Dorothy Eustis, as an older
girl, had been much admired by Sally and Josephine until she married
Neil Chase; that event had made a great difference in their warmth of
feeling. Sally did not like Neil, never had liked him, and never would
like him. A certain pomposity of manner, which had been a
characteristic of his, ever since the days when he wore dresses and
lorded it over the other infants in the park, had made him unpopular.
He had, however, become a successful young
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