She pointed to a butcher's cart immediately in front of us,
bearing, in large letters, the name of "E. Robinson."

"We must stop," she went on. "He will tell us about Harry."

It took me from Oxford Circus to Portman Square to convince her
that there were many thousands of Robinsons in London and that
the probability of the butcher's cart being a clue to Harry's
whereabouts was exceedingly remote.

At Baker Street station she asked, wearily: "Is it still far to
your house?"

"No," said I, encouragingly. "Not very far."

"But one can drive for many days through streets in London, and
there will be still streets, still houses? So they tell me in
Alexandretta. London is as big as the moon, not so?"

I felt absurdly pleased. She was capable of an idea. I had
begun to wonder whether she were not merely half-witted. The
fact of her being able to read had already cheered me.

"Many hours, yes," I corrected, "not many days. London seems big
to you?"

"Oh, yes," she said, passing her hand over her eyes. "It makes
all go round in my head. One day you will take me for a drive
through these wonderful streets. Now I am too tired. They make