In less than a minute I overtook the Count, just as he was crossing the street, and saw him enter a house, after saying something to a second-hand clothes man who was bawling out his goods from the open store on the ground floor.

By the time I had bought two silk handkerchiefs and a pair of boots, and was haggling like mad over a collection of linen collars, size 16--a present for you, Steingall--his nobility came downstairs, but not alone; there was a girl with him.

Luckily, she was no Hungarian, but Italian, and they talked in broken English.

'They no come-a here-a now-a-time, Excellenza,' she said, 'but you-a fin' dem at Morris Siegelman's restaurant at 'alf-a-pass twelve.' He said something choice--in pure Magyar, I guess--and headed for the taxi.

That is all, or practically all.