Meschini sat staring at the opposite row of
books, engaged in solving the problem. Just then, one of the open
volumes before him slipped a little upon another and the page
turned slowly over. The librarian started slightly and glanced at
the old-fashioned type. The work was a rare one, which he had
often examined, and he knew it to be of great value. A new thought
struck him. Why should he not sell this and many other volumes out
of the collection, as well as realise money by disposing of his
secret? He might as well be rich as possess a mere competence.
He looked about him. With a little care and ingenuity, by working
at night and by visiting the sellers of old books during the day
he might soon put together four or five hundred works which would
fetch a high price, and replace them by so many feet of old trash
which would look as well. With his enormous industry it would be a
simple matter to tamper with the catalogue and to insert new pages
which should correspond with the changes he contemplated. The old
prince was dead, and little as he had really known about the
library, his sons knew even less. Meschini could remove the stolen
volumes to a safe place, and when he had realised the value of his
secret, he would go to Paris, to Berlin, even to London, and
dispose of his treasures one by one.
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