When we got to the Blue Boar, lunch was all ready for us in the coffee room. Landlord tickled to death at our arrival. Wonderful cheddar cheese, and archdeacon ale. We made quite a ceremony of it--all drank Kathleen's health, and on the stroke of two we got up from the table. All the others beat it off immediately in different directions--looking for Bancroft Road, I expect. I had an idea that more finesse would be needed. I started off with the others, then pretended I had left my pipe, and came back to the Boar. I was going to look up the town directory, to find Kathleen's name--knowing the address, that would be easy. But there was Goblin doing the same thing! We both laughed and looked it up together. The name at 318, Bancroft Road was Kent, Philip Kent, F.S.A., Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, I suppose: the book put him down as an “antiquarian.” Kathleen's father, evidently. Goblin disappeared in that noiseless way of his, and I lit a pipe and pondered. The fellows had been full of wild suggestions as to what they would do when they got to 318, Bancroft Road. One was going to be a book agent and get into the house that way. Another said he would be the grocer's man and make friends with the cook. Someone else suggested dressing up as a plumber or gas-man, and going there to fix some imaginary leak. Knowing that the Kents were not fools, I imagined it wouldn't be long before they'd get wise to the fact that that bunch of dreadnoughts was picketing the house. Probably they'd put the police on them. Also, there's nobody harder to disguise than an English 'varsity man. He gives himself away at every turn. If “Fred” was around he'd be sure to smell a rat. One of those chaps would be likely to fake himself up as a plumber, and get in the house on some pretext or other--still wearing his wrist-watch! I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to stay away from Bancroft Road for a while and try to pull wires from a distance: The Blue Boar Inn--a very nice old house, by the way--looks out over the old Wolverhampton market place. In one corner of the square I had noticed a little post office. You can send a telegram from any post office in England, and I thought that would be my best entering wedge. The word “antiquarian” in the directory had given me a notion. On a blank I composed the following message, after some revisions: MISS KATHLEEN KENT, 318, Bancroft Road, WOLVERHAMPTON. My friend John Blair of Trinity now in Wolverhampton for historical study staying at Blue Boar nice chap American may he call on you if so send him a line sorry can't write hurt hand playing soccer love to all. JOE. This was taking a long chance, but was the best move I could think of. I asked the lady behind the counter to mark the telegram as though it came from Oxford. She said she could not do so, but I happened to have a five-bob piece in my pocket and that persuaded her. I convinced her that it was a harmless joke.