"Oh!" said he. "I did not quite understand you. It is so long since I was in Boston that my American French is a trifle weak. If you will take the blue trolley-car that goes up Ujazdowska Avenue, and ask the conductor to let you out at the junction of the Krakowskie Przedmiescie and the Nowy Swiat, the gendarme on the corner will be able to direct you thither."
"Great Heavens!" I cried. "Would you mind writing that down?"
He was a very agreeable young man, and consented. It is from his memorandum that I have copied the names he spoke with such ease, and if it so happens that I have got them wrong, it is his fault, and not mine.
"One more thing before I go," said I, folding up the memorandum and shoving it into the palm of my hand through the opening in my glove. "When I get to—er—the author of Quo Vadis's house, whom shall I ask for?"
I fear the young man thought I was mad. He eyed me suspiciously for a moment.
"That all depends upon whom you wish to see," he said.
"I want to see—er—him," said I.
"Then ask for him," he replied. "It is always well, when calling, to ask for the person one wishes to see. If you desired to call upon Mrs. Brown-Jones, for instance, it would be futile to go to her house and ask for Mrs. Pink-Smith, or Mrs. Greene-Robinson."
"I know that," said I. "But what's his name?"
The young man paled visibly. He now felt certain that I was an escaped lunatic.