“Hopeless, Bill. Perfectly hopeless!” He turned to express his thanks.
The Matron expressed her sorrow that his quest was fruitless.
Then the steward of the Allingham Cottage Hospital had a brain-wave.
“It’s just come to me, sir,” he exclaimed, “that Dr. Mackenzie—that’s the doctor in the village—used to take The Prattler to put on the table of his waiting-room. He’s a lot of office patients, you see, sir, and isn’t over particular about the date of the news he puts in front of them. So he may have some old ones.”
“It’s a chance, certainly,” exclaimed Anthony, “but a slender one.
“Thank you, Matron. Now for Dr. Mackenzie. There are points in favor of his parsimony.”
The steward directed us, and ten minutes’ quick walk brought us to the house. The doctor was in. He listened to us ... would be pleased to help us. As far as he knew all the Spears were somewhere in the Office Patients’ waiting-room ... yes, and The Prattlers. Would we care to look? There would be a couple of dozen or so on the table—the rest would be in a pile on a book wagon there....
“June, Bill ...” muttered Anthony. “About the third week in June.”
It was not on the table. I wasn’t sorry ... too greasy and too well-thumbed to be exactly pleasant. We divided the piles from the wagon. About twenty each. An exclamation from Anthony!
“Here it is, Bill. This would be the one. Come and look.”