OLD SIMPSON HARKER, who sat near the librarian’s table, his hands folded on the crook of his stout walking stick, glanced out of a pair of unusually shrewd and bright eyes at Bryce as he crossed the room and approached the pair of gossipers.
“I think the doctor was there when that book you’re speaking of was found,” he remarked. “So I understood from Mitchington.”
“Yes, I was there,” said Bryce, who was not unwilling to join in the talk. He turned to Campany. “What makes you think there’s a clue—in that?” he asked.
“Why this,” answered the librarian. “Here’s a man in possession of an old history of Barthorpe. Barthorpe is a small market-town in the Midlands—Leicestershire, I believe, of no particular importance that I know of, but doubtless with a story of its own. Why should anyone but
