Don leaned over him, as the old man, mumbling softly to himself, examined page after page.
"July, August, September—ah, I was a very busy man in those days—plenty to do with my hands, but not making money as I have been since—different line of business for the most part—October—November—here it is."
Donald leaned closer. He gave a sudden cry. Yes, there it was—a hasty memorandum; part of the writing was unintelligible to him, but the main word stood clear and distinct.
It was DOROTHY.
"Ah! Dorothy," echoed the other. "Yes, that was it. I told you so."
"You said Delia," suggested Don.
The old man gave a satisfied nod. "Yes, Delia."
"But it's Dorothy," insisted Donald firmly, and with gladness in his tone that made the old man smile in sympathy. "Dorothy, as plain as day."
To Monsieur Bajeau the precise name was of little consequence, but he adjusted his glasses and looked at the book again.
"Yes—Dorothy. So it is. A pretty name. I am glad, my friend, if you are pleased." Here Monsieur shook Donald's hand warmly. "The name in my book is certainly correct. I would be sure to write just what the lady told me." An antique clock behind them struck "two." "Ah, it is time for me to eat something. Will you stay and take coffee with me, my friend? We are not strangers now."