each department had its tale of instructors. But no mention of a Bertram Cope. Of course not; this volume, it occurred to him presently, represented the state of things during the previous scholastic year.
Next the card-catalogue. But this dealt with the students only—undergraduate, graduate, special. No Cope there.
Remained the loose-leaf faculty-index, in which the members of the professorial body told something about themselves in a great variety of handwriting: among other things, their full names and addresses, and their natures in so far as penmanship might reveal it. Ca; Ce; Cof; Collard, Th. 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 to-morrow. If you want his address . . ."
"Yes?"
"——I think I can give it to you." The youth retired behind a screen. "There," he said, returning wth 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
