As soon as he had finished, he called a porter to his side.

"Vite!" he cried, in a tone of authority, to the man. "Un fiacre!"

And the porter called one.

I started to find that I knew what he meant. Till that moment, in my
Second State, I had learned no French, and didn't know I could speak
any. But I recognised the words quite well as soon as he uttered
them. My lost knowledge reasserted itself.

They bundled on my boxes. The crowd still stood around and gaped at
me, open-mouthed. I got into the cab, more dead than alive.

"Allez!" my policeman cried to the French-Canadian driver, seating
himself by my side.

"A la gare du chemin de fer Pacific! Aussi vite que possible!"

I understood every word. This was wonderful. My memory was coming
back again.

The man tore along the streets to the Pacific railway station. By
the time we reached it we had distanced the sightseers, though some
of them gave chase. My policeman got out.

"The train's just going!" he said sharply. "Don't take a ticket for
Palmyra, if you don't want to be followed and tracked out all the
way. They'll telegraph on your destination. Book to Kingston