"Is your grandfather insured, or on any club?" I asked. "If so, the panel doctor—"
"No, he isn't insured, or anything. He's a gentleman. He has a liberry."
Toujours the Liberry! "Where does he live?" I inquired.
"Twenty-One, The Common. When can you come?"
"Eleven o'clock."
"All right. Don't be earlier than that: I have the room to straighten."
The Home of The Oracle proved to be one of a row—something between a villa and a cottage. The door was opened by my sharp-featured little friend.
"Walk in," she said—"and wipe your boots."
Mr. Baxter was in bed in the front parlour. As I had suspected, he had both legs with him—but one of these was inflamed and swollen.
"I always bring him in here when he's poorly," explained the granddaughter (whose name I discovered later to be Ada Weeks), "because he likes to be with his old books." She favoured her patient with an affectionate glare. "He's half silly about them."