She gave Sartor Resartus what is graphically described as a “once over,” and then seeing the morning Times lying on the table, picked it up, as she had not read it.  Her eye fell upon the column headed

                         Lostand found
                    Fifty cents an agate line

and as she had recently lost a little pearl brooch, she ran hastily through it.  She chuckled a little over

Lost—­Hotel Imperial lavatory, set of teeth.  Call or communicate Steel, 134 East 43 St. Reward, no questions asked.

Then she saw this: 

Lost—­Copy of Thomas Carlyle’s “Oliver Cromwell,” between Gissing Street, Brooklyn, and the Octagon Hotel.  If found before midnight, Tuesday, Dec. 3, return to assistant chef, Octagon Hotel.

“Why” she exclaimed, “Gissing Street—­that’s here!  And what a funny kind of book for an assistant chef to read.  No wonder their lunches have been so bad lately!”

When Roger and Helen rejoined her in the den a few minutes later she showed the bookseller the advertisement.  He was very much excited.

“That’s a funny thing,” he said.  “There’s something queer about that book.  Did I tell you about it?  Last Tuesday—­ I know it was then because it was the evening young Gilbert was here—­ a man with a beard came in asking for it, and it wasn’t on the shelf.  Then the next night, Wednesday, I was up very late writing, and fell asleep at my desk.  I must have left the front door ajar, because I was waked up by the draught, and when I went to close the door I saw the book sticking out a little beyond the others, in its usual place.  And last night, when the Corn Cobs were here, I went out to look up a quotation in it, and it was gone again.”

“Perhaps the assistant chef stole it?” said Titania.

“But if so, why the deuce would he advertise having done so?” asked Roger.

“Well, if he did steal it,” said Helen, “I wish him joy of it.  I tried to read it once, you talked so much about it, and I found it dreadfully dull.”

“If he did steal it,” cried the bookseller, “I’m perfectly delighted.  It shows that my contention is right:  people do really care for good books.  If an assistant chef is so fond of good books that he has to steal them, the world is safe for democracy.  Usually the only books any one wants to steal are sheer piffle, like Making Life Worth While by Douglas Fairbanks or Mother Shipton’s Book of Oracles.  I don’t mind a man stealing books if he steals good ones!”

“You see the remarkable principles that govern this business,” said Helen to Titania.  They sat down by the fire and took up their knitting while the bookseller ran out to see if the volume had by any chance returned to his shelves.

“Is it there?” said Helen, when he came back.

“No,” said Roger, and picked up the advertisement again. 
“I wonder why he wants it returned before midnight on Tuesday?”