"Talking of landmarks," he said, "we had a queer point arise in that
Aztec Street inquiry. The original dispute arose owing to a discussion
between a crowd of people in a pub as to where Wych Street was."

"I remember," said Lord Vermeer. "A perfectly absurd discussion. Why, I
should have thought that any man over forty would remember exactly
where it was."

"Where would you say it was, sir?" asked Lowes-Parlby.

"Why to be sure, it ran from the corner of Chancery Lane and ended at
the second turning after the Law Courts, going west."

Lowes-Parlby was about to reply, when Mr. Sandeman cleared his throat
and said, in his supercilious, oily voice:

"Excuse me, my lord. I know my Paris, and Vienna, and Lisbon, every
brick and stone, but I look upon London as my home. I know my London
even better. I have a perfectly clear recollection of Wych Street. When
I was a student I used to visit there to buy books. It ran parallel to
New Oxford Street on the south side, just between it and Lincoln's Inn
Fields."

There was something about this assertion that infuriated Lowes-Parlby.
In the first place, it was so hopelessly wrong and so insufferably
asserted. In the second place, he was already smarting under the
indignity of being shown up about Lisbon. And then there suddenly
flashed through his mind the wretched incident when he had been
publicly snubbed by Justice Pengammon about the very same point; and he