“I do,” said Mr. Petre, interrupting her. “But remember that I do. Mrs. Malton, what is my name?”
“Mr. Patten, sir,” said Mrs. Malton.
“Well,” said Mr. Petre, “I’ve got a secret to confide to you. My name’s not Patten. It’s Jasper.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Malton dutifully. She had no doubt at all what was the matter with her employer, but her loyalty stood firm.
“Now, Mrs. Malton, I depend upon you not to tell a soul of what I am going to ask you to do.”
“Oh, you may depend and depend, sir,” said Mrs. Malton, “always allowing that it’s right and proper.”
“Mrs. Malton, I want you to go to the Public Library, and ask them for a book, any book, on Loss of Memory.” Mrs. Malton bobbed again. She thought it was an extraordinary fuss to make about nothing, and five pounds left her under some strain of conscience. The good gentleman would never mean it if he were in his right mind. “Now, Mrs. Malton, go out and ask for the latest, and bring it back to me. I mean, find out where it’s sold, and buy a copy, and bring it back to me. Take a cab, be quick, and keep the change.”
Mrs. Malton was disappointed. She was looking forward to taking home that piece of paper unbroken; but her virtue was proof, and her loyalty. She brought back Wittrington—a book not twelve months old, and apparently, to judge by the Publishers’ Press Notices at the end, the last edition of the final authority upon such things. Mr. Petre turned to a telephone book remaining from the old days when he had possessed that instrument. He looked up Wittrington, and found an untitled person of that name with the right initials.
“Mrs. Malton, can you use the telephone?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Malton with another bob, “in my last place I did it frequent.”