This time there was no trace of humour in it. “So he really was on to Badon Hill.” “I told you so, Doc.” Harry Finsterwald had lost a little of his stuffing, but his voice still had an edge to it. “I thought that was just part of the cover story, Harry. I didn’t actually buy it.” “Well, you better buy it now, man. Because it’s true,” Merriwether said. “He thought—“ “Thought?” Mosby pounced on the word. “You don’t have any evidence?” “Evidence? We know what he bought, if that’s evidence. All the books you’ve been reading so carefully. And we got what he said, if that’s evidence—“ “Said to whom?” Merriwether raised a long-fingered hand. “Just wait and let me finish, don’t get over-heated, Doc. He talked to his bookseller, the man he got all his books from. Hunted all over for him, the bookseller did—far as the Russian Embassy, to find out about the Novgorod Bede.
