Part 10 (1/2)

Ten minutes later they were together bending over a great pile of ancient maps. Done on sheepskin and vellum, gray and brown with age, yet with colors as bright as on the day they were drawn, these maps spoke of an age that was gone and of a map-making art that is lost forever.

”Look at this one!” exclaimed the girl. ”The date's on it--1450. Made before the days of Columbus. And look! It is like the one Vincent had the photograph of; the most like of any.”

”Yes, but not the same,” said Curlie. ”See, those strangely shaped islands in the lower, right-hand corner are not on it; neither are the cherubs blowing to imitate the wind.”

”That's true,” said the girl in a disappointed tone, ”I had hoped it might be the same map. It might have told us something.”

Suddenly Curlie was struck with an idea. Leaving the girl's side, he approached the librarian.

”Have any of these maps been photographed recently?” he asked in a low tone.

”Not for several years,” she answered. ”But there are reproductions of these and others. They're in a bound volume in the next room. There the maps are reproduced on a large scale and a description of each is given.

The lady in charge will show you.”

Curlie tiptoed into that room. He was soon turning the pages of a large book which resembled an atlas.

After studying each successive page for some time, he came to a halt with a suppressed exclamation.

There, staring up at him, was a reproduction of the very map which had been photographed for Vincent Ardmore and, if further proof were lacking, there on the opposite page was a reproduction of the writing on the back of it, with a translation in fine print below.

Hurriedly he read this translation through. Twice he paused in utter astonishment. Three times he wrote down a brief note on a sc.r.a.p of paper. When he had finished, he looked at the lower left-hand corner of the map, then copied some figures reproduced there.

Closing the book quickly, as if afraid the girl would find him looking at it, he paused for a second to banish all sign of excitement from his face, then walked leisurely from the room.

”Find anything?” he asked in as quiet a tone as he could command.

”No,” there was a tired and worried look in her eyes. ”I'm afraid the map is not here.”

”By the way,” he said in a casual way, ”does your brother happen to have a pal living at Landensport on the coast?”

”Why, yes,” she said quickly, ”that's Alfred Brightwood. They were chums in Brimward Academy.”

”I thought that might be so.”

”And you think--think--” she faltered.

”What we think,” he smiled a disarming smile, ”doesn't count for much.

It's facts which really matter. Excuse me; I'll be back in a moment,” he said hurriedly. ”Want to telephone.”

In the booth of the library he conversed long and earnestly with his chief.

”Why, yes,” came over the phone at last, ”I don't see but that you had better finish the thing up. We can't let rich young offenders off easily. It would destroy the service entirely. Go ahead. Coles Masters can handle the station while you are away.”

The interview ended, he got Joe Marion on the wire.

”Joe,” he said hurriedly, ”throw some of my things into a bag and some of your own with them. Be down at the Lake Sh.o.r.e station at one-fifteen prepared for a short trip. Where to? Oh, New York and then some. It's important and interesting. Be there! Good. Good-bye till then.” He snapped down the receiver and hurriedly left the booth.