This was taking a long chance, but was the best move I could think of. I asked the lady behind the counter to mark the telegram as though it came from Oxford. She said she could not do so, but I happened to have a five-bob piece in my pocket and that persuaded her. I convinced her that it was a harmless joke.

I didn't see that there was anything further to be done immediately. If the telegram brought no word I should have to think up something else. In the meantime, if I was to pose as an antiquarian investigator I had better get up some dope on the history of Wolverhampton. I poked about until I found a bookshop, where I bought a little pamphlet about the town, and studied a map. Bancroft Road was out toward the northern suburbs. A little talk with the bookseller brought me the information that Mr. Kent was one of his best customers, a pleasant and simple-minded gentleman of sixty whose only hobby was the history of the region. He had written a book called "Memorials of Old Staffordshire," but unfortunately I couldn't get a copy. The bookseller said it was out of print.

Then I went to have a look at St. Philip's Church, a fine old Norman pile with some lovely bra.s.ses and crusaders' tombs. Here I had a piece of luck--fell in with the vicar. One of the jolly old port-wine and knicker-bocker sort: an old Oxford man, as it happened. I pumped him a little about the history of the church, and in his delight at finding an American who cared for such matters he talked freely. "Why," he kept on saying, with a kind of pathetic enthusiasm, "I thought all you Americans were interested in was Standard Oil and tinned beef." Finally he invited me over to the vicarage for tea. As I sat by his fire and ate toasted m.u.f.fins I couldn't help chuckling to think how different this was from the other Scorpions' plan of attack. They were probably all biting their nails up and down Bancroft Road trying to carry the fort by direct a.s.sault. It's amazing how things turn out: just as I was wondering how to give the conversation a twist in the right direction, the vicar said:

"If you're really interested in the history of this region you should certainly have a talk with old Mr. Kent. He's our leading antiquarian, and knows more about the Stour Valley than any one else. He says there was a skirmish fought here in 1645 that all the books have overlooked. The Battle of Wolverhampton, he calls it. He wrote a little pamphlet about it once."

I a.s.sured the good parson that my eagerness to know more about the Battle of Wolverhampton was unbounded. I nearly spilled my tea in my excitement.

"Is that Mr. Kent of 318, Bancroft Road?" I asked.

"Yes," answered the vicar. "How did you know?"

"They told me about him at the bookshop."

I explained that I was in Wolverhampton for a day or so only, and finally the excellent man came across with the suggestion I was panting for.

"Well," he said, "as it happens, I have one or two calls to make in that direction this evening. If you care to have me do so, I'll speak to Mr. Kent about you, and he can make an appointment.

You said you were stopping at the Blue Boar?"

I thanked him with such warmth that his eyes twinkled.

"My dear fellow," he said, "your enthusiasm does you great credit. I wish you all success in your thesis."

I got back to the Boar feeling that I had done a very good afternoon's work indeed.

VI

The Scorpions (continues Blair's diary) were all very merry at dinner that night--particularly at my expense. I was the only one who had not been out to Bancroft Road to look over the ground.

Apparently they had had a very cheery time.

"Well, Falstaff, what luck?" I asked Carter.

"Splendid!" he replied. "The local butcher has given me a job and I'm going to call there for a meat order tomorrow morning."

"What!" shouted someone. "On Sunday? Not likely!"

I knew mighty well that Carter would not concoct anything as crude as that, and wondered what deviltry he had devised.

"I noticed that two telegrams were delivered at the house this afternoon," said Forbes, in a quiet, non-committal kind of way.

"Perhaps Joe is on his way here," said I. "If so, Good-Night!" As I spoke, I wondered rather anxiously what the _other_ telegram could be.

"Well, we saw her, anyway!" said Whitney, "and she's marvellous!

She wears a blue tam-o' shanter and has an ankle like a fairy tale. We saw her walk down the street."

"That's nothing," I retorted, "I saw her hours ago. She was on the train with us from Birmingham this morning."

This started a furious wrangle. They said I hadn't played fair, as the contest didn't begin until two o'clock. My point was that I had not transgressed the rules as I had done nothing to profit by my accident in seeing her first.

"I couldn't help seeing her, could I?" I asked. "You could have, too, if you hadn't been all frowsting over _t.i.t-Bits_ in the train. And after all, I didn't _know_ it was Kathleen. I only suspected it."

I changed the conversation by asking where the Goblin was.

No one had noticed before that he hadn't turned up. This was a bit disconcerting. I secretly thought him the most dangerous compet.i.tor. He has a quiet, impish twinkle in his eye, and an un.o.btrusive way of getting what he wants. However, the others scoffed at my fears.

Although they all talked a great deal about the amusing time they had had, I could not gather that they had really accomplished much. Forbes claimed to have seen Fred, and said he looked like a rotter. We drank Kathleen's health a couple of times, and then the other three sat down to dummy bridge. I slipped away to the Public Library, partly to get some more of my antiquarian information about Wolverhampton, and partly because I knew my absence would disquiet them.

I found the Library after some difficulty. In the large reading-room I hunted up some books of reference, but to my disappointment Mr. Kent's volume was out. Looking round for a place to sit, the first person I saw was the Goblin, bent very busily over a book and making notes on a pad of paper. I leaned over him.

"h.e.l.lo, Goblin," I whispered. "Getting ready for a First?"

He started, and tried to cover his volume with a newspaper, but I had seen it. It was a cook book.

"That's a queer kind of fiction you're mulling over," I remarked.

"I'm looking up a recipe for stuffed eggs," said the Goblin, without a quiver. "Our Common Room steward does them so poorly."

"Well, don't let me interrupt you," I said. I sat down in a corner of the room with a volume of the Britannica. When I next looked up the Goblin was gone.

As usual, I wasted my time with the encyclopedia. I got interested in the articles on Wages, Warts, Weather, Wordsworth, and Worms. By the time I got to Wolverhampton it was closing time. I did just seize the information that the town was founded in 996 by Wulfruna, widow of the Earl of Northampton. Then I had to leave.

I got back to the Boar about ten-thirty. The coffee-room was empty. The landlord said that Whitney and Forbes were out, but that Mr. Carter had gone upstairs.

Falstaff and I were rooming together, and when I went up I found him reading in bed.

"h.e.l.lo, Wulfruna!" he said, as I came in.

Evidently he, too, had been reading up some history. Just as I got into bed he fell asleep and his book dropped to the floor with a thump. I crept quietly across the room and picked it up.

It was "Memorials of Old Staffordshire," by Philip Kent, F.S.A., the very copy that I had looked for at the Library. I skimmed over it and then put it carefully back by Falstaff's bedside. Was he on the antiquarian trail, too? I began to realize that these rivals of mine would take some beating.

The next morning (Sunday) I found a note waiting for me on the breakfast table. Three indignant Scorpions were weighing it, studying the handwriting, and examining the stationery like three broken-hearted detectives.

"It's not Kathleen's hand, but I'll swear it's the same notepaper," Forbes was saying.

Under a venomous gaze from all three I took the letter out of the room before opening it. Forbes was right: it was the well-known Bancroft Road notepaper. It ran thus:

318, BANCROFT ROAD, WOLVERHAMPTON Sat.u.r.day Evening.

DEAR MR. BLAIR,

Mr. Dunton, the vicar of S. Philip's, has just told me of your visit to him. I am so glad to know that you take an antiquarian interest in this region. Curiously enough, only this afternoon we had two wires from our cousin Joe in Oxford, one of which mentioned your being here. That gives us additional reason for looking forward to making your acquaintance.

Mrs. Kent wants you to come to lunch with us to-morrow, at one o'clock. Unfortunately I myself am laid up with rheumatism, but some of the family will be delighted to take you to see the quite surprising relics in this vicinity. Joe has probably told you all about Fred, who is really quite one of the family. The poor fellow needs exercise dreadfully; you must take him with you if you go tramping. Charlie and Oliver, my boys, are away at school.