swiftly stooped over, picked up a return check of a New York theater, good the night before, and slid it into one of the pockets of his silk robe.
"That's about 1400 B. C.," said Barrister easily. "Where on earth did you get hold of it?"
"From my godfather, in Cairo," said the palmist.
"Well," said Barrister, returning, "I've no time now to examine it closely."
"And the matter which worries your wife?" Astro inquired.
Again his visitor hesitated, looked about the room, and gazed again at the sphinx. "Well," he said finally, "I'll tell you." He seated himself and went on: "I have, or rather did have, a First Folio Shakespeare, one of the few good ones of the thirty-seven copies extant. It was stolen from my library yesterday. That's what I want to find—"
"That, and the one who stole it also, I suppose?"
"Er—yes. Yes, certainly."
"An interesting sort of quarry, and rather unusual. Have you been to the police?"
Barrister pursed his lips and shook his head.
"No. You see, there wouldn't be much use in that, would there? I'm afraid the thief, if he found he was suspected, would destroy the book. He can't sell it, anyway; for these folios are as well known to collectors as good race-horses are to touts. He can't get away with it; for every bookman in the world will soon know it if he offers it for sale. I want it back, of course; but it is my wife's idea, this coming to you about it. She gave me the book when we were first married, and so, naturally, I value it at even more than its own great intrinsic value."
