I knew I was all right when I read the initials. I had found the place
and the man. The place was the ticket-office of the International
Sleeping-Car Company. The man was its agent.
So I said, very politely and in my best French--it is a little frayed
and worn at the edges, but it arrives--sometimes----
"A lower for Paris."
The man in chocolate, with touches of the three primary colors
distributed over his person, half-closed his eyes, lifted his shoulders
in a tired way, loosened his fingers, and, without changing the
lay-figure expression of his face, replied:
"There is nothing."
"Not a berth?"
"Not a berth."
"Are they all _paid_ for?" and I accented the word _paid_. I spend
countless nights on Pullmans in my own country and am familiar with many
uncanny devices.
"All but one."
"Why can't I have it? It is within an hour of train-time. Who ordered
it?"
"The Director of the great circus. He is here now waiting for his
troupe, which arrives from Berlin in a special car belonging to our
company.
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