Tom was beginning to despair of ever getting the doctor to understand what was wanted.
“Don’t you remember?” he asked. “It was the same day you secured that edition of Smollett,” for Tom had an excellent memory.
“Oh, yes! Now I remember, of course. Why didn’t you say that at first? The papers about my estate. Why, yes, of course. You brought them up the day I secured that rare copy of Smollett. Of course, I remember now,” and the doctor chuckled at his excellent memory, which never could remember anything unless it was associated with a book.
“Will you get those papers and bring them to Mr. Boise’s office?” asked Tom. “He wants to see you at once. It’s very important.”
“Yes—yes, of course. Right away. The papers? Of course; let me see now, where did I put them?”
Tom felt like groaning. It seemed hopeless to try to get the old physician to remember where the documents were.
“Let me see,” mused the physician. “Did I put them in my desk? I’ll look.”
He did without result. Then he explored a small safe, next a chest of drawers. Then he looked in all his pockets. Then he stared around at the rows of books.
“That’s queer,” he murmured. “I can’t remember where I put them.”
Tom thought instead of being queer that it was the most natural thing in the world for the doctor not to remember.