The recorder’s office closed at four thirty.

Arthur met me there at three thirty with his legal pad tucked under his arm and a certified copy request already filled in.

The transfer books were bound in green canvas, one volume for every year.

The clerk set this year’s and last year’s on the counter and went back to her desk.

Arthur located the entry in six minutes.

“A quitclaim, recorded on April fourth, for a parcel on Oak Street.” His finger halted on the notary line.