He walked out of the office carrying his purchase, leaving no name and no address. As it was raining heavily at the time, the assistant official, because of the customer's age and apparent infirmities, followed him to the door with an umbrella, and politely volunteered to call a taxi. After he had done this, he put the old man into the cab. And now, after an interval of four months, he recalled the address the customer had given the taxi-driver: "Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street."
This remarkable display of memory sent me off at once to another field of inquiry. In a small, musty, corner curio and book shop, at Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street, I found a courteous, white-haired old man, looking rather shaggy and unkempt, who recognized the scroll at once as a sample of his own handicraft. He did not know, of course, he said, for what purpose it was to be used, nor did he seem to care; and he appeared equally unconcerned over the strange inscriptions it contained. He seemed both surprised and grieved when I showed him the water-mark. Apparently, he believed that I had been taken in by some antique dealer, in the purchase of the scroll as an ancient document.
"I do not often make a slip like that," he said, "and I am very sorry indeed if I've caused my customer any embarrassment. He did not specify that it should look old, but just different from the usual run of scrolls. For instance, he requested me to perfume the gum that holds the parchment securely to the ebony roller."
"That's all very interesting," I said, as calmly as I could. "Now, there's just one more question—did your customer reveal his name?"
The old bookseller shook his head. "I have no idea who he is," he replied; "no idea at all of his actual identity. He paid me a pretty stiff price in advance for my work. That's all that interested me."
"Can you describe him?" I asked.
He took off his spectacles, and wiped them carefully on a frayed, white silk handkerchief. "No," he said, finally and slowly. "I'm afraid I can't describe him. My memory and eye-sight are both failing fast. If you were to leave here now, and an hour later, some one was to ask me to describe your appearance, I would be utterly at a loss. I do recall, however, that he was middle-aged, well-dressed, and well bred—a gentleman, I should say."
"And that is all you know of him?" I persisted.
"That's all I know of him," the old man assented. "Well, yes, I do just remember one other thing. The day he called for the scroll, he apologized for his hurried departure, saying that he had only a few minutes in which to keep an important engagement in Radio Center, and make his train."
"Ah!" I breathed. "Did he mention taking a train on any particular railroad?"