Miss Simmons looked startled, but she did as she was bid. Fifteen minutes later, they were in a second-hand book shop on Sixth Avenue. Peter squinted at the list in the dim light. "I want _The Story of English_ by Mario Pei," he said to the proprietor, "and _The Story of Language_ by the same author. Give me a copy of the memoirs of Winston Churchill, the--" He went on like that for several minutes, and the pile of books in front of him began to grow. Then he browsed through the magazine section, looking for back issues of _Life_, _Time_, and _Scientific American_. He told Miss Simmons to get a taxi, and they began loading the stuff in the back seat. Then they drove to the New York _Times_ building and got back issues of the past year. With all this loot, they drove back to the offices of Crabley & Co. It was during the ride back that Peter wondered whether it was possible that the people of the future had stolen the money that Quiggs had been blamed for and replaced it with a bundle of paper. But he shook his head. It couldn't be. The bundle had been made of cut-up newspapers, and, besides, they had Quiggs' fingerprints all over them. Miss Simmons helped him get the stuff into his office, and then she said: "Mr. Merton, I don't like to butt into your business, but may I ask what all this literature is for?" Grinning happily, Peter Merton swore the girl to secrecy, then he told her what had happened. As he finished the story, Miss Simmons began to edge slowly toward the door. "--and so, I had to get these books and things. They're evidently doing research into history. These are books they've lost, somehow. Imagine what it would be like if our historians could get copies of the books that were burned at the Library of Alexandria, and--Just a minute! Where are you going, Miss Simmons?" * * * * * Miss Simmons smiled a sickly smile. "Oh, _nowhere_! Are you sure you feel all right, Mr. Merton?" "Do I feel--" Peter looked blank. "Oh! I see. You think I've gone off my rocker. Well, we'll see. Maybe I have, but I don't think so. Look; I'll prove it to you." He scribbled a note to Rolath Guelph and put it inside the safe with a couple of the books. Then he closed the safe. He waited three minutes and opened it again. Irene Simmons' eyes opened wide in astonishment, and her mouth formed a crimson O. Tumbling out of the safe came sheaf after sheaf of banknotes. "_Now_ do you believe me?" Peter asked triumphantly. "Y--yes. What else can I believe? Are they real?" He picked one of the bills up and looked at it closely. "It's real, all right. I started out in business as a bank teller, and I know how to tell a counterfeit. This is the real McCoy, all right." "Well--well, my goodness!" was all Miss Simmons could say for a moment. Then, after the shock of seeing all that money had lessened a little, she asked: "What are you going to do with it, Peter?"