Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. "I was hoping to save a trip." He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw. A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted toward it. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly. "See what I can do," he said. It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table where a two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated a line written in faded ink: "May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW Quarter Section 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)" "Translated, what does that mean?" said Tremaine. "That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on the nineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?" "No, thanks," Tremaine said. "That's all I needed." He turned back to the door. "What's up, mister?" the clerk called after him. "Bram in some kind of trouble?" "No. No trouble." The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. "Nineteen-oh-one," he said. "I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must be dern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age." "I guess you're right." The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. "Lots of funny stories about old Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises and lights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place." "I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?" "Maybe so." The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look. "There's one story that's not superstition...." Tremaine waited. "You--uh--paying anything for information?" "Now why would I do that?" Tremaine reached for the door knob. The clerk shrugged. "Thought I'd ask. Anyway--I can swear to this. Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup." * * * * * Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stucco facade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed a paper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. "You'll find back to nineteen-forty here," the librarian said. "The older are there in the shelves." "I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far." The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. "You have to handle these old papers carefully." "I'll be extremely careful." The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafed through it, muttering. "What date was it you wanted?" "Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth." The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table, adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. "That's it," she said. "These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in the dark. But they're still flimsy, mind you." "I'll remember." The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the front page. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-American Exposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech. Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.