wasn't disappointed; he only thought there was some new arrangement.
He went to the middle desk and asked where the catalogue of
twentieth-century books was kept. He gathered that there was
still only one catalogue. Again he looked up his name, stared at
the three little pasted slips he had known so well. Then he went and sat
down for a long time.

"And then," he droned, "I looked up the 'Dictionary of National
Biography,' and some encyclopedias. I went back to the middle desk and
asked what was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century
literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton's book was considered the
best. I looked it up in the catalogue and filled in a form for it. It was
brought to me. My name wasn't in the index, but--yes!" he said with a
sudden change of tone, "that's what I'd forgotten. Where's that bit of
paper? Give it me back."

I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the
floor, and handed it to him.

He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably.

"I found myself glancing through Nupton's book," he resumed.
"Not very easy reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling. All the modern
books I saw were phonetic."

"Then I don't want to hear any more, Soames, please."

"The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for
that I mightn't have noticed my own name."