He stayed by the window on the qui vive, but no sound broke the stillness of Gissing Street. In the distance he could hear the occasional rumble of the Elevated trains rasping round the curve on Wordsworth Avenue. He wondered whether he ought to go over and break into the shop to see if all was well. But, like every healthy young man, he had a horror of appearing absurd. Little by little weariness numbed his apprehensions. Two o’clock clanged and echoed from distant steeples. He threw off his clothes and crawled into bed.
It was ten o’clock on Sunday morning when he awoke. A broad swath of sunlight cut the room in half: the white muslin curtain at the window rippled outward like a flag. Aubrey exclaimed when he saw his watch. He had a sudden feeling of having been false to his trust. What had been happening across the way?
He gazed out at the bookshop. Gissing Street was bright and demure in the crisp quietness of the forenoon. Mifflin’s house showed no sign of life. It was as he had last seen it, save that broad green shades had been drawn down inside the big front windows, making it impossible to look through into the book-filled alcoves.
Aubrey put on his overcoat in lieu of a dressing gown, and went in search of a bathtub. He found the bathroom on his floor locked, with sounds of leisurely splashing within. “Damn Mrs. J. F. Smith,” he said. He was about to descend to the storey below, bashfully conscious of bare feet and pyjamaed shins, but looking over the banisters he saw Mrs. Schiller and the treasure-dog engaged in some household manoeuvres. The pug caught sight of his pyjama legs and began to yap. Aubrey retreated in the irritation of a man baulked of a cold tub. He shaved and dressed rapidly.
On his way downstairs he met Mrs. Schiller. He thought that her gaze was disapproving.
“A gentleman called to see you last night, sir,” she said. “He said he was very sorry to miss you.”
“I was rather late in getting in,” said Aubrey. “Did he leave his name?”
“No, he said he’d see you some other time. He woke the whole house up by falling downstairs,” she added sourly.
He left the lodging house swiftly, fearing to be seen from the bookshop. He was very eager to learn if everything was all right, but he did not want the Mifflins to know he was lodging just opposite. Hastening diagonally across the street, he found that the Milwaukee Lunch, where he had eaten the night before, was open. He went in and had breakfast, rejoicing in grapefruit, ham and eggs, coffee, and doughnuts. He lit a pipe and sat by the window wondering what to do next. “It’s damned perplexing,” he said to himself. “I stand to lose either way. If I don’t do anything, something may happen to the girl; if I butt in too soon I’ll get in dutch with her. I wish I knew what Weintraub and that chef are up to.”
The lunchroom was practically empty, and in two chairs near him the proprietor and his assistant were sitting talking. Aubrey was suddenly struck by what they said.
“Say, this here, now, bookseller guy must have struck it rich.”
“Who, Mifflin?”
“Yeh; did ya see that car in front of his place this morning?”
“No.”
“Believe me, some boat.”
“Musta hired it, hey? Where’d he go at?”
“I didn’t see. I just saw the bus standing front the door.”
“Say, did you see that swell dame he’s got clerking for him?”
“I sure did. What’s he doing, taking her joyriding?”
“Shouldn’t wonder. I wouldn’t blame him—”
Aubrey gave no sign of having heard, but got up and left the lunchroom. Had the girl been kidnapped while he overslept? He burned with shame to think what a pitiful failure his knight-errantry had been. His first idea was to beard Weintraub and compel him to explain his connection with the bookshop. His next thought was to call up Mr. Chapman and warn him of what had been going on. Then he decided it would be futile to do either of these before he really knew what had happened. He determined to get into the bookshop itself, and burst open its sinister secret.
He walked hurriedly round to the rear alley, and surveyed the domestic apartments of the shop. Two windows in the second storey stood slightly open, but he could discern no signs of life. The back gate was still unlocked, and he walked boldly into the yard.
The little enclosure was serene in the pale winter sunlight. Along one fence ran a line of bushes and perennials, their roots wrapped in straw. The grass plot was lumpy, the sod withered to a tawny yellow and granulated with a sprinkle of frost. Below the kitchen door—which stood at the head of a flight of steps—was a little grape arbour with a rustic bench where Roger used to smoke his pipe on summer evenings. At the back of this arbour was the cellar door. Aubrey tried it, and found it locked.
He was in no mood to stick at trifles. He was determined to unriddle the mystery of the bookshop. At the right of the door was a low window, level with the brick pavement. Through the dusty pane he could see it was fastened only by a hook on the inside. He thrust his heel through the pane. As the glass tinkled onto the cellar floor he heard a low growl. He unhooked the catch, lifted the frame of the broken window, and looked in. There was Bock, with head quizzically tilted, uttering a rumbling guttural vibration that seemed to proceed automatically from his interior.
Aubrey was a little dashed, but he said cheerily “Hullo, Bock! Good old man! Well, well, nice old fellow!” To his surprise, Bock recognized him as a friend and wagged his tail slightly, but still continued to growl.
“I wish dogs weren’t such sticklers for form,” thought Aubrey. “Now if
