Part 3

"The lot will cost thee two dollars, Doctor."

"All right. Give me a receipt. This is the last time I'll give free advice to anyone! Particularly a Quaker!"

When Mr. Welford "looked around" he discovered that the beautifully bound sermons, eulogies, prayer-books and catechisms were worth next to nothing. He almost passed away when a kind friend told him that Poor Richard's Almanac was worth a thousand dollars.

Another amiable acquaintance cheerfully imparted the information that the scandalous pamphlet about the First Proprietor of Pennsylvania was valued at ten shares of Pennsylvania Railroad stock. At hearing this good news, he put on his gray hat and started full of righteous indignation to interview the lucky purchaser.

"Don't swear, Mr. Welford. That's not becoming one of your persuasion."

"Thou--thou--"

"Don't choke and splutter so. It's bad for the heart."

"Thee told me those big books of sermons were valuable. They're not worth the paper they're written on!"

"Now, you're becoming sacrilegious!"

"Thee knows that rotten old thing about Penn was worth all those catechisms and sermons combined."

"I naturally thought that a religious book was worth more than a scandalous one. That stands to reason."

"There's no arguing with thee. I'll expose thee, if it takes--"

"Oh, no, you won't. I have your receipt in full."

Mr. Welford thought a minute. A grim smile overspread his features.

"I congratulate thee, Doctor. If thee can get the better of a Philadelphia Quaker, thou art welcome to the profit!"

Now this has nothing to do with Robert Hooker. It appears upon further investigation, however, that the candle-stick made by Paul Revere, silversmith and patriot, that stood upon the mantel-piece of the Doctor's home in Connecticut, was known under the outrageous name of "Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy in Old Calf."

Why this candle-stick was catalogued in this mysterious way was known only to Doctor Morton.

Three years ago the first edition of Burton's great book, published in Oxford in 1621, and in its original calf binding, was borrowed by the Doctor, who said he was writing an article for the _Atlantic Monthly_, on "Old Burton and the Anatomy."

The owner of the book could not resist the gentle demands of the true scholar, and sent the volume. He ought to have known better, for his name was Robert Hooker!

It was not soothing to the imaginations of book-lovers when it became known that the two gems from Welford's library had gone into the rapacious hands of Doctor Morton, to be turned into an old mahogany sofa or a colonial high-boy.

It was criminal, and must be prevented at all costs. And Robert Hooker, smarting under the recollection of the loss of the "Anatomy" thought he would like to add wicked "Penn" and "Poor Richard" to his household. They would prove a considerable addition to his "museum of the imagination."

How to secure them was a problem! Ordinary methods could not be applied to the extraordinary Doctor Morton! The wisdom of the serpent was as nothing to the vivid intellectuality of the Connecticut Sage! It must be confessed that only New England could have produced him; only the rarified bookish atmosphere of three hundred years could have engendered a creature of such genius!

Hooker never despaired. A remedy was close at hand.

He was walking one day, on Thirty-ninth Street, and just off Broadway, he noticed a very handsome mahogany secretary in an antique store. He entered the establishment, and asked its price.

"A hundred dollars!" said the proprietor. "This piece is believed to have been once the property of Thomas Jefferson. I purchased it from one of his heirs."

"I'll take it," said Hooker simply.

Three weeks later Doctor Morton entered a little shop on Fourth Avenue. He had received a letter from the head partner, asking him to call the next time he came to New York, and inspect a piece of colonial furniture of the greatest historical interest.

The doctor was almost carried away when he beheld the beautiful relic of revolutionary days. This would grace his home with rare charm! He asked the price.

"Forty-five hundred dollars!"

"I don't understand. Why is it so valuable?"

"That's Thomas Jefferson's desk. It comes from his heirs; the Declaration of Independence was written on it!"

"That's a pretty story. Where's your proof? Without documentary evidence, it's not worth more than a hundred dollars."

"I have the proof, Doctor. Look here."

The proprietor then rolled back the top. He put his finger upon a secret drawer. He took out a letter and handed it in silence to Doctor Morton.

He read as follows:

Monticello, June 12, 1821.

This secretary which is five feet four inches high and three feet wide, made of Santa Domingo mahogany, was purchased by me in Philadelphia in November, 1775, of Robert Aitken, the printer. Upon this desk, I wrote in my home on High Street near Seventh, the celebrated instrument known as the Declaration of Independence. Thinking that my heirs and others would value this article for its association with the sacred cause of liberty, I make this statement.

Witness my hand and seal, this twelfth day of June, 1821, and the year of American Independence, the forty-fifth.

THO. JEFFERSON.

Doctor Morton looked carefully at the letter. He examined the red wafer with "T. J." in faded letters upon it.

Accompanying the letter was another from one of the heirs of the celebrated statesman.

"The desk is cheap at any--" Doctor Morton blurted. He caught himself in time.

"I'd like to own it. I'd give your price, but haven't the cash. I have some old books worth lots of money. Perhaps we can arrange a trade."

For two hours the two worked over this momentous transaction. At the end of that time, and in consideration of a rare pamphlet containing scurrilous remarks on William Penn, an old ephemeris printed by Benjamin Franklin and seven hundred and fifty dollars in cash, the mahogany colonial secretary was transferred to Doctor Willis Morton--to have and hold forever.

One evening, about a month later, the eccentric collector of the little Connecticut town sat down in his chair to gloat over and hold communion with his "literary" treasures, for he did not call them articles of virtu or specimens of bric-a-brac, or furniture of the Jacobean period, but gave each piece that was dear to him a name that smacked of books and learning. His mind turned to the evil early life of William Penn, and the wisdom of Poor Richard, while at the same time his eyes were riveted upon a beautiful eighteenth century desk. A bell interrupted his agreeable visions. A telegram had arrived. He opened it hurriedly, and read:

Please look under red wax wafer on Jefferson's letter. Important Information. R. H.

Doctor Morton went to the secretary, and taking the letter in his trembling hands, gingerly lifted the seal of the third President of the United States.

"Damn!" he cried, as he read in minute letters:

"A forgery,--in pleasant memory of my lost 'Anatomy.'

"Robert Hooker, _fecit_."

IN DEFENCE OF HIS NAME

He was again talking of his ancestors. He was always talking of his ancestors....

It was in the library of a Fifth Avenue club, but the gentlemen seated at a window overlooking the famous thoroughfare were not discussing books. They were examining with care the beautiful ladies that always decorated this brilliant highway.

"_That_--with the blue bonnet and the short blue sleeves, is Mrs. Wilberforce Andre," said John Stuyvesant DePuyster. "Her husband is a descendant of Varick who served as aide-de-camp to General Arnold."

"That doesn't make her more attractive," said Robert Hooker.

DePuyster ignored the remark. "My great grandfather--"

"We know all about him," chorused the others. "Let-up, please. Have mercy on us, it's a hot day."

"My great grandmother, on my father's side--" persisted DePuyster.

"We know all about _her_!" the others answered, wearily.

"But Mrs. Andre reminds me of an interesting story. And you are always looking for stories. In January, 1779, my great grandfather was serving on the staff of Benedict Arnold. As you know, it was he, John Stuyvesant DePuyster, my namesake, who rescued the colors so gallantly at Saratoga--who fought at Germantown--who almost starved at Valley Forge--who rescued General Greene at the risk of his life--who was wounded with two bullets in his flank at the battle of Trenton--who served so brilliantly under Mad Anthony Wayne--who--"

The others looked at each other furtively, with misery indicated on every feature.

One of them, the great autograph collector, Robert Hooker, nervously twitched his fingers. He seemed in agony, and looked around, evidently for signs of relief.

--"Who received a medal for gallantry at Monmouth," chronicled the voice in a perfectly satisfied tone,--"who rebuked Colonel Tarleton--who was praised even by the British commander Lord Howe--who sat at the court-martial of Andre--and who--"

"Was a traitor to his country!" said Hooker, quietly.

Everyone looked uneasy. They all hated scenes. But at any rate, it was a fortunate escape. A duel with bloodshed would be better than DePuyster's stories!

"Sir," he returned hotly, "an accusation such as this has never been made against our family!"

"Then I shall be the first to make it."

"It is outrageous,--a damnable, lying statement, and you've got to prove it I I'll force it back into your throat, you slanderer! You've got to prove it, I say, Sir!"

"I have the proof!"

"Then you've got to show it. I demand it. I have the right to demand it."

"Two weeks from now, there will be sold at the Amhurst Auction Galleries, an autograph letter of General Arnold, in which he speaks of General DePuyster as an accomplice, who was ready to turn over to the British cause his honor and his sword. The catalogue will be issued in two weeks' time, and the full text of the letter printed. It might be well for your precious family that this letter remains unpublished!"

"I'll look it up at once," said DePuyster. "Until you prove your statement, I'll not notice or speak to you, Sir."

A week later an old autograph letter was shown to him at the cataloguing rooms of the auction-house. DePuyster had called every day, but it was a week before he was allowed to see it. It was to be sold as the "property of a gentleman."

With trembling hands, he examined this tomb of the secrets of the illustrious DePuyster, this time-stained document with faded writing. The letter read as follows:

Robinson's House, September 2, 1780.

Sir:--

Everything is progressing as agreed. I have secured a pass for Hett Smith. I suppose the ordnance at West Point is the same as given. What of the military force? We have not enough to help us _on this side_. We need more than two, a third or fourth person is required. Colonel DePuyster, in charge of the ordnance, has given me his word that he will be ready when called upon. He has already written me, giving the number of blackberries in the first field. He is of great assistance, and his name, which has always stood for honor in America, will prove a great asset to us. It is a name that is like Cæsar's wife, and has never been _suspected_. I have supplied the third help-mate; will you furnish our fourth?

I am, Sir, with great respect,

Your most obedient humble servant, GUSTAVUS.

Maj. John Anderson.

The descendant of the gallant revolutionary soldier trembled like a coward. The name of John Anderson and Gustavus were well-known to him as those assumed by Andre and Arnold in the great conspiracy. The hand-writing was, undoubtedly, Arnold's; he had letters in his own home written by the infamous general to Col. DePuyster, his great grandfather--letters written years before the treason--and the writing was identical.

"What--what will you take for this letter?" asked DePuyster.

"It will be sold at auction in two weeks' time," the clerk answered, politely.

"But I would like to purchase it before the sale."

"Sorry, sir, but its owner will sell only at public sale. The competition will cause it to bring a high price."

"Who is the owner?"

"I don't know."

"Can't you find out?"

"He desires to remain unknown."

"Tell him for me, that I will give any price for it before it is published in the catalogue."

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Hooker also came here to examine it. He wanted to buy it. He is a great expert, you know, and he always desired a letter of General Arnold's--about the treason. Mr. Sterling also wants it. He has a letter giving the amount Arnold received for betraying his country. It is said his letter is worth five thousand dollars. This is worth almost as much."

"I'll give him five thousand for this one."

"No, sir. You will have to wait until the sale."

Mr. Hooker sat at the club window. The feminine decorations of the Avenue did not interest him. He was thinking of poor DePuyster. Someone had just told him that DePuyster had remained indoors, not daring to show his face at the Club. He was at his apartments drinking Scotch whiskeys to take his mind away from the letter which haunted him. He could not bear to look into pedigrees and genealogies, which used to be his constant companions.

Hooker was actually sorry for the descendant of the stalwart Revolutionary hero, who dared not face his friends--much less his enemies. He would give the old man a tip! he said to himself. Anyhow it was delicious to have seen DePuyster's face when the accusation was made.

"DePuyster made me so nervous that I just _had_ to do it. But I'll give him a hint. I'll write him, telling him perhaps the letter is a forgery. That will give him a chance. As a gentleman of honor, I shall write him. I should wish the proof, like his ancestors, to be "above suspicion!"

The letter was received by DePuyster, who becoming suddenly brave, faced the light of day, and made the astounding charge to the president of the auction-house that the Arnold (Gustavus) letter was nothing but a forgery! A rank imitation, a fabrication to blackmail a noble family distinguished for three hundred years in American History!

The president grew angry; the letter had been passed upon by well-known experts, as well as their own cataloguers of autographs; it was undoubtedly genuine, and would be sold as such.

"I'll sue you for damages, if you publish that letter before it is passed upon by the greatest experts in the world."

"Go ahead and sue," said the president, turning away.

DePuyster, however, had among his numerous acquaintances, many famous lawyers, one of whom secured an injunction, preventing the sale, and impounding the letter.

It came later before the Court which, with unusual wisdom, stated that the matter should be decided by three disinterested experts, one to be selected by the Court, one by the auction-house, and one by DePuyster.

The contestants assembled in the little court-room which was crowded with friends of the parties to the suit, and eminent autograph and book-collectors. They came from many cities to hear the wrangle over the famous letter, and to witness the battle of the experts.

The name of each expert was placed in an envelope, and sealed.

"The appointment of the Court--is Robert Hooker," announced the judge, tearing to pieces the envelope.

"The expert for the defense," read the judge, tearing open another envelope, "is Robert Hooker.

"The expert that will represent the plaintiff," continued His Honor, breaking with his fingers the manila paper, "is Robert Hooker."

All eyes were turned to the corner where Robert Hooker sat unconcerned. He seemed, in a measure, overwhelmed by this new distinction.

He had been known the world over as a collector of autographs and manuscripts, but he had never been called upon as an expert.

Hooker arose. He examined the letter but for an instant.

"I have formed an opinion, Your Honor."

"So soon?"

"Yes."

"What is your decision?"

"It is a forgery!"

"Are you certain?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt!"

"Why are you so positive," queried the Judge, "when so many other authorities state that it is genuine?"

"I am positive," said Hooker, "because I wrote it myself!"

There was an uproar in the Court.

"Please explain, sir," said the judge sternly.

"DePuyster had become such a pest, such a terror to his friends by his family anecdotes and antique stories that I could stand it no longer. I was literally bored to death. I made the charge in jest. DePuyster took it so seriously that I was compelled to supply the proof. I purchased an old sheet of writing paper with the water-mark of the Revolutionary period. I practised for hours, so I could imitate General Arnold's handwriting. When I finished the letter I almost thought it an original myself! The farce was wonderful! The hoax--a joy! I thought that I had become a Good Samaritan who had saved his friends from a very tiresome old gentleman with a hobby for family history. When my name was first called--I hesitated, but when you all selected me, I was overwhelmed with the distinguished honor. I told the truth, and spoiled a story."

"You have _created_ a story!" said the judge.

"THE HUNDRED AND FIRST STORY"

The owner did not at the time of the robbery suspect anyone. The volume had disappeared; that was all. Yesterday the famous copy of Boccaccio printed by Valdarfer in the year of grace 1471 had been one of the talked-of things in John Libro's famous library. It had reposed in its case along with its ancient companions, who in the silence of the night would relate to one another the right merry tales of Fair Jehan, of Patient Grissel, of Launcelot du Lac; and their morocco sides would shake with laughter at the quips of Giovanni Boccaccio, of Certaldo, and the rude, trenchant jests of Master Francis Rabelais. The fine old volume, which had been the envy and despair of book-lovers, had only recently been added to the collection of Mr. Libro. In 1812 it had the proud record of selling for over £2000 and since then it had a most splendid career, having been fondled and loved by only the elite of the bibliomaniac world. Its owners had been knights, viscounts, dukes, kings, emperors,--and bibliophiles!

On the night of December 12, 1910, the "Valdarfer Boccaccio," as it had been termed, had been shown to a number of members of the "Maioli Club," a club consisting only of those interested in rare prints, books, typography, early manuscripts, and money. The volume, after having been sufficiently admired, handled, looked into, collated and gossiped over, was locked in its case by Mr. Libro, who felt a feeling of relief when the doors were shut and the key stored safely in his pocket. He did not like the rude way some of the younger and inexperienced members handled the precious gift of the gods; and a very thoughtful and scholarly collector had the audacity and unheard of temerity to read it!

The next morning on going into the library all Mr. Libro saw was a vacancy in his favorite bookcase. Between the Dante of 1481 and the Aldine "Poliphilus" was an oblong space that had been so gloriously filled by the distinguished production of the press of Italy. The Boccaccio had vanished!

The news of its loss was flashed over the entire world. Comment on its strange disappearance was general; articles appeared in the newspapers on how to safeguard the world's great literary treasures; the _London Times_ had a leading article in which it was stated that "America did not deserve to own things of inestimable artistic and intellectual value if it did not know how to preserve them."

The first thing a gentleman does when he has been robbed is to call in a detective whose name is always a household word in novels and plays. Mr. Libro requested John Bunting to aid him with his advice, notwithstanding the fact that he had been overwhelmed with suggestions from every newspaper reporter in the United States and Canada.

At noon Bunting called. After asking the usual questions, which although a great detective, he did not disdain to do, he requested Mr. Libro to tell him the names of his guests of the night before.

"But, Mr. Bunting, I tell you I myself locked the case, put the key in my pocket, and retired. They could not possibly have extracted it in my presence, and I saw the last of them to the door."

"I would like their names."

"But I do not suspect any of them, Mr. Bunting."

"That is not so, Mr. Libro, if I may be permitted to say so. You do not care to admit it, but you suspect someone of that Literary Club."

"I am suspicious of my best friends, but dare not indicate any one. If you want their names, I shall tell you--James Blakely, the great authority on Elizabethan Poetry; Henry Sterling, of Sterling, Petty & Co.; Robert Rodd, who knows more about the first editions of Paradise Lost than anyone; Edward Stevens; James Janney--that's five--there were six,-- Oh, yes, Robert Hooker. He is quite a student but does not possess the bank account to buy all the books he wants. He would spend a million a year if he had it. He was the underbidder on the Boccaccio. Yes, Mr. Bunting, Hooker came near owning it once. I sent an unlimited bid for it at the Sunderland Sale. He tried to buy it from the bookseller who acted as my agent, when he found his own bid had not been high enough."

"Mr. Libro, that is interesting. It was no ordinary thief, however, who took it. The ordinary New Yorker does not know the difference between _that_ book and one by Marie Corelli!"

Bunting began the investigation at once. He followed zealously every clew. A few notorious criminals, who were seen in the immediate vicinity of the house, were interviewed without result. One of them, who had been noticed a block from the house shortly after midnight, was locked up on suspicion. He was discharged from custody the next morning as nothing could be proved against him. This individual, who was known to the police as "Booky" Phillips, had been arrested many times, but never convicted. The Chief found him quite placid under the rapid fire of his questions. He had read of the lost Boccaccio in the _Herald_, but did not understand why any "self-respecting thief would stoop to steal a worthless old book!"

As a last resort Bunting was compelled to investigate the members of the Maioli Club. Although they were book-lovers the detective found, much to his surprise, that they were respectable citizens. He called one day upon Mr. Hooker without giving notice of his visit.

"Mr. Hooker," he said, "I would like to know about the book missing from the Libro collection. Do you know where it is?"

Mr. Hooker seemed to be choking. His face grew red and he could not answer for the moment. Bunting repeated the question and Hooker grew angry.

"How dare you ask me such a thing? You are so accustomed to dealing with thieves that you try your crude methods on everyone. The book will turn up sometime; meanwhile myself and all my friends will be continually annoyed by your insults and threats. Good-day."

The detective left. He felt sure that Hooker knew more than he cared to admit. Perhaps the book was even now upon his shelves. He would have his house and office searched. This was done. The Boccaccio was nowhere to be seen.

Two years passed. The Valdarfer Boccaccio, which had been a day's wonder, was forgotten by all except Mr. Libro and Mr. Hooker. They saw each other rarely after the loss of the unlucky volume; in fact they avoided each other. The incident was never mentioned among the members of the Maioli Club--it was a thing never to be spoken of at its meetings.