I didn't see that there was anything further to be done
immediately. If the telegram brought no word I should have to
think up something else. In the meantime, if I was to pose as
an antiquarian investigator I had better get up some dope on
the history of Wolverhampton. I poked about until I found a
bookshop, where I bought a little pamphlet about the town,
and studied a map. Bancroft Road was out toward the northern
suburbs. A little talk with the bookseller brought me the
information that Mr. Kent was one of his best customers, a
pleasant and simple-minded gentleman of sixty whose only
hobby was the history of the region. He had written a book
called "Memorials of Old Staffordshire," but unfortunately I
couldn't get a copy. The bookseller said it was out of print.

Then I went to have a look at St. Philip's Church, a fine old
Norman pile with some lovely brasses and crusaders' tombs. Here I
had a piece of luck--fell in with the vicar. One of the jolly old
port-wine and knicker-bocker sort: an old Oxford man, as it
happened. I pumped him a little about the history of the church,
and in his delight at finding an American who cared for such
matters he talked freely. "Why," he kept on saying, with a kind
of pathetic enthusiasm, "I thought all you Americans were
interested in was Standard Oil and tinned beef." Finally he
invited me over to the vicarage for tea. As I sat by his fire and
ate toasted muffins I couldn't help chuckling to think how
different this was from the other Scorpions' plan of attack. They
were probably all biting their nails up and down Bancroft Road
trying to carry the fort by direct assault. It's amazing how
things turn out: just as I was wondering how to give the
conversation a twist in the right direction, the vicar said: