the passenger elevator and was scared someone would report him to the manager.  Just as we were getting to the fourteenth floor I said to him in a whisper, “It’s all right, old chap, I’m not going to report you.”  I give you my word he looked more scared than before.  He went quite white.  I got off at the fourteenth, and he followed me out.  I thought he was going to speak to me, but Mr. Chapman was there in the lobby, and he didn’t have a chance.  But I noticed that he watched me into the grill room as though I was his last chance of salvation.”

“I guess the poor devil was scared you’d report him to the police for stealing the book,” said Roger.  “Never mind, let him have it.”

“Did he steal it?”

“I haven’t a notion.  But somebody did, because it disappeared from here.”

“Well, now, wait a minute.  Here’s the queer part of it.  I didn’t think anything more about it, except that it was a funny coincidence my seeing him after having noticed that ad in the paper.  I had a long talk with Mr. Chapman, and we discussed some plans for a prune and Saratoga chip campaign, and I showed him some suggested copy I had prepared.  Then he told me about his daughter, and I let on that I knew you.  I left the Octagon about eight o’clock, and I thought I’d run over here on the subway just to show you the lost notice and give you this tobacco.  And when I got off the subway at Atlantic Avenue, who should I see but friend chef again.  He got off the same train I did.  He had on civilian clothes then, of course, and when he was out of his white uniform and pancake hat I recognized him right off.  Who do you suppose it was?”

“Can’t imagine,” said Roger, highly interested by this time.

“Why, the professor-looking guy who came in to ask for the book the first night I was here.”

“Humph!  Well, he must be keen about Carlyle, because he was horribly disappointed that evening when he asked for the book and I couldn’t find it.  I remember how he insisted that I must have it, and I hunted all through the History shelves to make sure it hadn’t got misplaced.  He said that some friend of his had seen it here, and he had come right round to buy it.  I told him he could certainly get a copy at the Public Library, and he said that wouldn’t do at all.”

“Well, I think he’s nuts,” said Aubrey, “because I’m damn sure he followed me down the street after I left the subway.  I stopped in at the drug store on the corner to get some matches, and when I came out, there he was underneath the lamp-post.”

“If it was a modern author, instead of Carlyle,” said Roger, “I’d say it was some publicity stunt pulled off by the publishers.  You know they go to all manner of queer dodges to get an author’s name in print.  But Carlyle’s copyrights expired long ago, so I don’t see the game.”

“I guess he’s picketing your place to try and steal the formula for eggs Samuel Butler,” said Aubrey, and they both laughed.