Murders in, Volume 2 by Elizabeth Daly Read Free Book Online

fireplace, nervously playing with her gloves.
    â€œIt’s trifling, but so characteristic of the period.” Mr. Vauregard opened the book and handed it to Gamadge, who read on the flyleaf the following inscription, in a bold and ornamental hand:
    To Fanny Vauregard
from
…A Friend
    â€œFanny Vauregard was my grandmother,” said Mr. Vauregard. “She had a very dear friend—school friend; they attended The Van Korn Female Academy, and they were very sentimental. At that time, you must know, young ladies were not permitted to read Byron’s poems.”
    â€œOr much besides, I suppose,” said Gamadge.
    â€œBut Byron was taboo—absolutely taboo. She and Cornelia Dykinck—by the way, Robina, do you ever see the Dykincks nowadays?”
    â€œWell, Uncle, I’m afraid not. Old Mrs. Dykinck is an invalid, and the girl is such a bore.”
    â€œWrong of you, very wrong; you shouldn’t lose sight of the old family friends. Not,” said Mr. Vauregard, archly, “that I have seen anything of them myself, for the last twenty years or so; but then, bachelors are privileged.”
    â€œThey are, indeed,” said his niece, tartly. “I don’t remember anything about this story you’re telling, Uncle Imbrie.”
    â€œYou young people would never listen to any of my old stories. No wonder family traditions die out. Well, my grandmother and her friend—Cornelia Petrie, she was then—swore a mutual covenant that the moment they married, which they proposed to do the moment they left school, they would instantly purchase and read the whole of Byron.”
    â€œLeaving the spouses to their own devices for a week or so?”
    â€œNo doubt. They married, and settled down; and of course I need not tell you that they quite forgot Lord Byron.”
    â€œAnd all his works.”
    â€œAnd all his works,” repeated Mr. Vauregard, laughing heartily at this mild witticism. “But my Great-uncle Charles, who was something of a wag, heard the story; and on the next Christmas—the Christmas of 1839—he picked up two little sets of Byron, exactly alike, and presented them to my grandmother and to Mrs. Dykinck.”
    â€œDelightful,” said Gamadge, refraining from a glance at Miss Vauregard, who seemed suddenly to have lost much of her vivacity.
    Mr. Vauregard said: “We have other odd memories connected with the set. We—ah—lost the second volume a century ago, and if you will believe me, Mr. Gamadge, it was not until last month that I was able to replace it!”
    â€œHow very odd—and how lucky,” said Gamadge. “I see that it looks much fresher than the others. Might I look at it?”
    Mr. Vauregard’s fingers trembled as he took it from the shelf and handed it to Gamadge. The latter examined it with interest, and asked casually: “Where did you find it?”
    â€œWell…you mayn’t ask. The details of my discovery are a secret.”
    â€œThe details of such discoveries so often are.” Gamadge produced a little leather case containing a reading glass, and inspected Volume II without and within; he then repeated the process with Volume I.
    â€œOne would swear they came out of the same set,” he declared, “if it were not for the fresher binding on your discovery.”
    â€œWouldn’t one?” Mr. Vauregard beamed.
    â€œOnly, the top edges of Volume II are a little rubbed.” Gamadge peered at a double row of tiny scars, which seemed to say that Volume II had been squeezed into a space too narrow for it.
    â€œI saw no rubbing.” Mr. Vauregard peered anxiously over his shoulder.
    â€œMicroscopic. And Volume II is not foxed; Volume I is; rather badly, too, I’m afraid. And so,” continued Gamadge, taking out Volumes III and IV, “are your others.”
    â€œExtraordinary,” murmured Mr. Vauregard, with a dreaminess in his dark eyes which