spindling, watery ones he had tried to grow in the window-box, he'd
forget that failure in a whole big row all along the terrace, tall and
strong, standing up straight in the country sunshine. What was the
address of that man who made a specialty of gladioli? He ought to have
noted it down. "Vincent," he asked, "do you remember the address of that
Mr. Schwatzkummerer who grew nothing but gladioli?" Vincent was looking
with an expression of extreme astonishment at the sheet of music on the
piano. He started at the question, stared, recollected himself, laughed,
and said, "Heavens, no, Mr. Welles!" and went back into his own world.
There were lots of things, Mr. Welles reflected, that Vincent did _not_
care about just as hard as he cared about others.

In a moment the younger man came and sat down on the short, high-armed
sofa. Mr. Welles thought he looked puzzled, a very unusual expression on
that face. Maybe, after all, he hadn't got the owners of the house so
well-plotted out as he thought he ought to. He himself, going on with
his own concerns, remarked, "Well, the name must be in the Long Island
telephone directory. When you go back you could look it up and send me
word."

"Whose name?" asked Vincent blankly.

"Schwatzkummerer," said the other.

"_What_!" cried Vincent incredulously, and then, "Oh yes," and then,
"Sure, yes, I'll look it up. I'm going back Thursday on the night train.
I won't leave the Grand Central without going to a telephone booth,
looking it up, and sending it to you on a postcard, mailed there. It
ought to be here on the morning mail Saturday."