She recognised him at once, and advanced, sparkling as before.
"Did you find your friends, sir?" she asked as he saluted her.
"I did not," said Conrad, "but I intruded on an inoffensive household who were perfect strangers to me. The Dr. Page whose address you very kindly furnished was not my Dr. Page at all."
"Oh dear! how very awkward," she said. "I am so sorry."
"It was awkward, wasn't it?" he concurred. "Of course I threw all the blame on you, so they forgave me, but I'm now quite helpless. My friends seem to have vanished as utterly as if Sweetbay had closed over their heads, and to complete the difficulty this family of spurious Pages arose since. I foresee that as often as I make another attempt I shall be directed to Redhill. I didn't like to tell you before, because it makes me sound so old, but the people I mean are the Pages who lived here in 'seventy-seven. I beg of you not to jump. Everybody jumps—that's why I have grown so nervous of mentioning the date."
Her eyes were full of amusement; she leant her elbows on the counter.
"I wasn't in the office then," she said reflectively.
"Naturally," he returned. "You must have been in your cradle. I was only a little boy. They were companions of my cherub stage; believe me, I was rosily young."
"There's a gentleman in the town who might be able to tell you something," she suggested: "Mr. Irquetson, the vicar of All Saints. He has been here thirty years, or more."
"Really?" exclaimed Conrad, and added, "It's a shame to be beaten, isn't it?"