“Since you’re not so anxious about those books, anyway, I’ll give you a hundred per cent profit.” He took out a five dollar bill. “This for the books—as is.” It had suddenly occurred to him that he might find a clue to the girl’s identity in the books. A bookplate, perhaps. Or an inscription.
“Nonsense. You’re an optimist, my son, the old man answered quietly. “I’ll make much more than that on these books-—without looking.”
“Then I’ll give you five dollars for one of the packages—ten dollars,” he tempted, as he saw denial in the eyes of the bookseller. “It’s a profit—clean velvet—without your even having to open the strap.”
Masterson hesitated for a moment. The young man was right . . . he was a bookseller, and it was his business to make a profit. Val saw victory in his eyes.
“Is it a deal?” he asked.
“You’ve bought that bundle of books,” answered Masterson, pointing to one of them, containing ten or eleven books. “Show me ten dollars.”
Money was passed and the deal consummated.
“Never mind wrapping them up,” said Val. “I’ll just throw them into the car.” His machine was at the door, a flying roadster of an expensive and recent make.
