Sylvia's heart throbbed as she climbed the streets that led toward the high center of the city away from the hot mists below: it was imperative to get Queenie out of Rumania at once, and while she walked along she began to wonder if she could not procure an English passport, the delight of possessing which would counterbalance for Queenie the shock of hearing that the dreaded Zozo was in Bucharest.
"It's such a ridiculous name for a bogy," Sylvia thought. "And the man himself was not a bit as I pictured him. I'd always imagined some one lithe and subtle. I wonder what his object was in helping that painted hussy he was with. Queer, rather."
She reached the British Consulate, but was told rather severely to direct herself to the special office that occupied itself with passports.
"Do you want a visa for England?" the clerk inquired.
"Yes, and I also want to inquire about a new passport for my sister, who's lost hers."
"Lost her passport?" the clerk echoed; he shuddered at the information.
"It seems to upset you," Sylvia said.
"Well, it's a pretty serious matter in war-time," he explained. "However, we have nothing to do with passports at the Consulate."
The clerk washed his hands of Sylvia's past and future, and she left the Consulate to discover the other office. By the time she arrived it was nearly five o'clock, and the clerk looked hurt at receiving a visitor so late.
"Do you want a visa for England?" he asked.