"Now," said Wrentz, "it is only a matter of waiting."
Pauline's cab passed out of the central city into the region of factories.
"This looks like the section where the print shops are in New York," she said confidently to herself.
But the driver kept on into streets of dingy, ancient houses—streets crowded with unkempt children and lined with push-carts.
"Are you sure you got the right address of them publishers, Miss?" he asked after awhile. "The next street is Weston and it don't look very promisin'."
She drew the letter from her handbag and showed it to him.
"Well, that's the queerest thing I know," he said, astonished by the letterhead. "I've been drivin' cabs—horse and taxi—for twenty years, and I never heard of no such people or no such place."
"Well, at least go around the corner and see. Perhaps it is a new firm that isn't listed as yet," said Pauline.
The driver swung the cab into a street even more bleak and bedraggled than the one they had just traversed. He stopped and got out. Pauline followed him. A blear-eyed man, slouching on a stoop, looked up in faint curiosity as she addressed him.
"There ain't no No. 9 Weston Street," he answered.