time. I did just seize the information that the town was founded
in 996 by Wulfruna, widow of the Earl of Northampton. Then I had
to leave.

I got back to the Boar about ten-thirty. The coffee-room was
empty. The landlord said that Whitney and Forbes were out, but
that Mr. Carter had gone upstairs.

Falstaff and I were rooming together, and when I went up I found
him reading in bed.

"Hello, Wulfruna!" he said, as I came in.

Evidently he, too, had been reading up some history. Just as I
got into bed he fell asleep and his book dropped to the floor
with a thump. I crept quietly across the room and picked it up.
It was "Memorials of Old Staffordshire," by Philip Kent, F.S.A.,
the very copy that I had looked for at the Library. I skimmed
over it and then put it carefully back by Falstaff's bedside. Was
he on the antiquarian trail, too? I began to realize that these
rivals of mine would take some beating.

The next morning (Sunday) I found a note waiting for me on the
breakfast table. Three indignant Scorpions were weighing it,
studying the handwriting, and examining the stationery like three
broken-hearted detectives.

"It's not Kathleen's hand, but I'll swear it's the same
notepaper," Forbes was saying.