J., who was an instructor in French and lived on Rosemary Place;
Copperthwaite, Julian M., Cotton ... No Cope. He looked again, and further.
No slightest alphabetical misplacement.
"You are not finding what you want?" asked the clerk at last. The search
was delaying other inquirers.
"Bertram Cope," said Randolph. "Instructor, I think."
"He has been slow. But his page will be in place by tomorrow. If you want
his address...."
"Yes?"
"--I think I can give it to you." The youth retired behind a screen.
"There," he said, returning with a bit of pencilling on a scrap of paper.
Randolph thanked him, folded up the paper, and put it in his pocket. A mere
bit of ordinary clerkly writing; no character, no allure. Well, the actual
chirography of the absentee would be made manifest before long. What was it
like? Should he himself ever have a specimen of it in a letter or a note?
That evening, with his after-dinner cigarette, he strolled casually through
Granville Avenue, the short street indicated by the address. It was a
loosely-built neighborhood of frame dwellings, with yards and a moderate
provision of trees and shrubs--a neighborhood of people who owned their
houses but did not spend much money on them.
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