He racked his brains to think whether the press mark of the book which Mr. Eldred had been inquiring after was one in any way corresponding to the numbers on Mrs. Simpson's little bit of paper. But he found to his dismay that the shock of the previous week had really so upset him that he could neither remember any vestige of the title or nature of the book, or even of the locality to which he had gone to seek it. And yet all other parts of library topography and work were clear as ever in his mind.
And another thing—he stamped with annoyance as he thought of it—he had at first hesitated, and then had forgotten, to ask Mrs. Simpson for the name of the place where Eldred lived. That, however, he could write about.
At least he had his clue in the figures on the
paper. If they referred to a press mark in his
library, they were only susceptible of a limited
number of interpretations. They might be
divided into 1.13.34, 11.33.4, or 11.3.34. He could
try all these in the space of a few minutes, and if
any one were missing he had every means of
