She did so, and the librarian struggled with it for a moment. "Why, it is all nonsense. Tell him that we cannot solve any newspaper puzzles over the telephone. He will have to come to the library."
Then Mrs. Pomfret Smith announced herself on the telephone.
"That the library? Who is this? Miss Patterson? Oh, how do you do? This is so nice of Mr. Vanhoff. I was coming down to the library this morning, but the weather is so horrid that I thought I would telephone instead. Now, my cousin is visiting me, and I have told her about a novel I read last summer, and she is just crazy to read it, too. But I can't for the life of me recall the name of it. Now, do you remember what it was?"
"Why—I'm afraid I don't. Who was the author?"
"That's just the trouble. I can't remember his name to save my life! I'm not even sure that I noticed his name—or her name—whoever it was. I never care much who wrote them—I just look them through, and if they're illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy or anybody like that, I just take them, because I know then they'll be all right. This one had pictures by Christy or Wenzell or one of those men. It was a lovely book—oh, I do wish you could tell me what it was! Where is Miss Anderson? She would know. Isn't she there?"
"No—I am sorry, she will not be here till afternoon. If you could tell me something about the novel—the plot, and so forth, I might have read it myself."
"Oh, of course you've read it. Why, you read all the books that come into the library, don't you?"
"Not quite all."
"You don't? How funny! Why, whatever do you find to do with yourselves down there? You're sure you don't remember the one I want?"
"Why, Mrs. Smith, you haven't told me about the plot of it yet."