She decided not to say anything about a lost passport, the revelation of which had so much shocked the man at the Consulate.
"Miss Johnstone," the clerk called in a weary voice to somebody in an inner office, "kindly bring Form AQ—application for renewal of expired passport."
A vague-looking young woman, who seemed to have been collecting native jewelry since her arrival in Bucharest, tinkled into the office.
"There aren't any AQ forms left, Mr. Mathers," she said, plaiting, as she spoke, a necklace of coins into another of what looked like broken pieces of mosaic.
"It really is too bad that the forms are not given out more regularly," Mr. Mathers cried, in exasperation. "How am I to finish transferring these Greeks beginning with C to K? You know how anxious Mr. Iredale is to get the index in order, and the F's haven't been checked with the Ph's yet."
"Well, it's Miss Henson's day off," said Miss Johnstone, "so it's not my fault, is it? I'm sure I hate the forms! They're always a bother. Won't an AP one do for this lady? We've a lot of them left, and there's only a difference in one question."
"Excuse me," Sylvia asked. "Did you mention a Mr. Iredale?"
"Mr. Iredale is the O.C.P.T.N.C. for Bucharest," said Mr. Mathers.
"Not Mr. Philip Iredale, by chance?" she went on.
That transposition of Greek initials had sounded uncommonly like Philip.