Well, he had done with his search for Mary! He said he abandoned it in disgust, and was still firm on the point when he reached Mowbray Lodge. He began to reconsider packing his portmanteaux. For two days he made no further inquiry of anyone, and lingered, as it were, under protest. Yet in England at least he might spend December amid worse surroundings than Sweetbay presented now; he owned that. From the chief thoroughfares the last speck of mud had long since been removed; the pink sidewalks shone as spotless as when he trod them in October. The air was tender, there was an azure sky, a sunlit sea curled innocently upon the beach. Yes, of a truth, he might fare worse. If it were not for the dulness, he could scarcely fare better. On the third afternoon, as he sauntered through the High Street, it occurred to him that it could do no harm to announce his failure to the mirthful postmistress. He did not pledge himself to resume his efforts, but---- It certainly was very dull, and if he were more explicit she might be able to give him another hint. She recognised him at once, and advanced, sparkling as before. "Did you find your friends, sir?" she asked as he saluted her. "I did not," said Conrad, "but I intruded on an inoffensive household who were perfect strangers to me. The Dr. Page whose address you very kindly furnished was not my Dr. Page at all." "Oh dear! how very awkward," she said. "I am so sorry." "It was awkward, wasn't it?" he concurred. "Of course I threw all the blame on you, so they forgave me, but I'm now quite helpless. My friends seem to have vanished as utterly as if Sweetbay had closed over their heads, and to complete the difficulty this family of spurious Pages arose since. I foresee that as often as I make another attempt I shall be directed to Redhill. I didn't like to tell you before, because it makes me sound so old, but the people I mean are the Pages who lived here in 'seventy-seven. I beg of you not to jump. Everybody jumps--that's why I have grown so nervous of mentioning the date." Her eyes were full of amusement; she leant her elbows on the counter. "I wasn't in the office then," she said reflectively. "Naturally," he returned. "You must have been in your cradle. _I_ was only a little boy. They were companions of my cherub stage; believe me, I was rosily young." "There's a gentleman in the town who might be able to tell you something," she suggested: "Mr. Irquetson, the vicar of All Saints. He has been here thirty years, or more." "Really?" exclaimed Conrad, and added, "It's a shame to be beaten, isn't it?" "Oh, it is," she agreed; "and he's a very nice gentleman; he'll be glad to help you if he can." "Well, I think I'll go to see him; if he has been here thirty years, he can hardly fail to remember the Dr. Page I'm talking about." He glanced at the clock. "Do you think he's likely to be in now?"