I cut short these irrelevant comments on Von Eckhardt’s verbal peculiarities, with which I was perfectly familiar.
“How long’s he here for?”
“Don’t know. Rather think, from what he said, that he’s chucked up his post on the Zeitung—”
“What on earth for?”
“How should I know? I tell you he’s as mad as a hatter.”
“Wonder where I’d be likely to find him; not at the Zeitung office, if he’s left. I must see him this afternoon. Do you know where he hangs out, Medhurst?”
“With his people, I believe; somewhere in Charlotten Strasse or thereabouts. I met him mooning about in the Tiergarten this morning.”
I called a waiter and sent him for a directory. There were scores of Von Eckhardts in it, and I decided to go to the Zeitung office, and ascertain his address there.
Medhurst volunteered to walk with me.
“How are the Cayleys?” he asked, as we went along. “Thought that handsome Miss Pendennis was going to stay with them all the summer. By Jove, she is a ripper. You were rather gone in that quarter, weren’t you, Wynn?”