As it happened this pleasure had to be postponed. To Mame’s disappointment the old boy did not appear at dinner. But she did not blame him. The food was meagre and those who ate it were quite the dullest set she had ever seen. Some of the guests were accommodated with small separate tables. One of these had been provided for Miss Du Rance. It was in a draughty corner, exposed to a strong current of air between two open doors which led to a large and antiquated lift whereby the meal ascended from the basement.
Mame felt small-town, but she had come to Europe to learn. Even if the seclusion of a private table had its conveniences she would have much preferred to mingle with her fellow p.g.’s. She was social by nature. Besides, she was determined to be a mixer. All these folks had it in their power to teach her something, duds though they were. Britain must give up all its secrets to Miss Amethyst Du Rance. Judging by the dead-beats who swarmed in this fog-bound isle they might amount to nothing; at the same time one cannot know too much of one’s subject. For some little time to come the subject for Miss Du Rance was going to be London, England.
V
THE next morning the fog had lifted and Mame set out for Fleet Street. By Mrs. Toogood’s advice she boarded Bus 26 which passed the end of Montacute Square; and having made a friend of the conductor, a kindly and cheerful young man, he promised to let her know when they came to Tun Court.
He was as good as his word. In about ten minutes he pulled the cord and popped his head into the bus. “Y’are, miss. Tun Court’s just opper-site.” And then as a concession to Mame’s accent, which was a long way from home: “Watch out, missy, when you cross the street.”
Mame with her recent experience of Broadway and Fifth Avenue felt she could have crossed this street on her head. It was so narrow. And although there was no lack of traffic it was moving slow with a remarkable sense of order and alignment. But Mame liked the young conductor for his briskness and his courtesy; and as she stepped off the knife-board and with the fleetness of a slender-ankled nymph she dodged between the delivery vans of the Westminster Gazette and the Morning Post she winged him a bright smile.
London, so far, was a city of disappointments. Tun Court added to their number. It was mean, insignificant, tumble-down, grimy. But Mame had read that Doctor Johnson or some other famous guy had either lived or died in it. The latter probably. No man would have chosen Tun Court to live in, unless he had gone off the handle, as the famous, she had also read, were more apt to do than ordinary folks.
The salient fact about Tun Court, however, had nothing to do with Doctor Johnson. It was the home of the well-known Society journal High Life. Mame would not have looked to find a paper of repute housed in this nest of frowsty, mildewed offices in which there was not space to swing a cat. But she did look and with such poor success that she had to open her bag and produce the address which Paula Ling had given her in order to verify it. Yes, it was O.K.: Number Nine, Tun Court, Fleet Street. Yonder, through that decaying arch, which by some means had evaded the great fire of B.C. 1666—or it may have been A.D.?—was the footpath the ancient Romans had laid along the Fleet Ditch; and the cobblestones upon which Mame stood, which no doubt had been laid by the Romans also, indubitably rejoiced in the name Tun Court, since straight before her eyes a sign was up to say so.
The puzzle was to find Number Nine. Tun Court dealt in names, not numbers. Among the names High Life was not to be found. There was the registered London office of the Quick Thinkers’ Chronicle; also of the Broadcasters’ Review; also of the official organ of the Amalgamated Society of Pew Openers. These were the portents which leaped to Mame’s eye, but the one she sought did not seem to be there. At the far end of the alley, however, where the light was so bad that it was difficult to see anything, she was just able to decipher the legend, High Life. Top Floor. It was painted on a wall, inside a doorway.
Mame boldly attacked some dark stairs, very hollow sounding and decrepit and full of sharp turns, passing en route the outer portals of the Eatanswill Gazette and other influential journals. The higher rose the stairs the darker they grew. But at last patience was rewarded. High Life—Inquiries, met the pilgrim’s gaze at the top of the second pair of stairs; yet had that gaze not been young and keen a match would have been needed to read the inscription on the wall.