Part 9 (1/2)

That's why one should struggle to lay foundations, to prepare one's self for life. For eighteen years, without education, one may be good enough.

Then, like the old museum, one is cast aside, abandoned to decay.”

As these thoughts swept through her mind she resolved more strongly than before, that, come what might, she would continue her battle for a university education.

Suddenly recalling her mission, she asked the attendant to tell her where she might find Mr. Cole.

”Mr. Cole's office,” said the man courteously, ”is in the left wing, third floor. See those stairs at the other end of this hall?”

”Yes.”

”Take those stairs. Go to the third floor. At the last landing go straight ahead. His door is the fourth to your right.”

”Thank you,” and Florence hurried on her way.

A moment later she was knocking at the door of the great archaeologist's studio.

”Why, it's Miss Huyler!” he exclaimed as he opened the door to her. ”Come right in. What may I do for you?”

Ruthaford Cole was one of those rare men who have studied their subject so thoroughly and who have traveled so widely in search of further knowledge that they have no need to a.s.sume a false air of importance and dignity to make an impression. Under middle age, smooth-shaven, smiling, he carried the att.i.tude of a boy who has picked up a few facts here and there and who is eager to learn more.

But show him a bit of carving from the Congo and he is all smiles; ”Oh!

Yes, a very nice bit of modern work. Good enough, but done to sell to traders. Possesses no historical value, you know.”

A bit of ivory from the coast of Alaska, rudely scratched here and there, a hole torn out here, an end broken off there, browned with age, is presented and he answers, his face lighting up with genuine joy, ”Now there is really a rare specimen. Handle of a bow-drill; made long before the white man came, I'd say. Tells stories, that does. Each crudely scratched representation of reindeer, whale, wolf or bear has its meaning.”

That was the type of man Cole was. Frank and friendly to all, he gave evidence in an una.s.suming way, of a tremendous fund of knowledge.

Now, as Florence unwrapped the blue candlestick, he watched the movement of her hands with much the same look that a terrier wears when watching his master dig out a rat. Once the candlestick was in his hand, he held it as a merchant might a bit of costly and fragile china-ware.

Florence smiled as she watched him. She had hoped he would say at first glance: ”Why, where did you chance to find that? It was lost from one of our cases while we were moving! We believed it stolen.” Florence had had quite enough of adventure and mystery. She was convinced that holding this trophy she was sure to experience more trouble.

Mr. Cole did not do the expected thing. What he did was to turn the candlestick over and over. A look of amazement spread over his usually smiling face.

”No,” he murmured, ”it can't be.”

Two more turns. He held it to the light. ”And, yet, it does seem to be.”

Stepping to a door which led to a balcony, with an absent-minded ”Pardon me,” he disappeared through the door, but Florence could still see him.

As he held the thing to the light, turning, turning, and turning it again, the look of amazement grew on his face.

As he re-entered the room, he exclaimed:

”It is! It most certainly is! I am astounded.”

Motioning Florence to a seat he dropped into the swivel chair before his desk. For a moment he sat staring at the candlestick, then he asked:

”Would you mind telling me where you found this?”