CHAPTER XV
Directly he arrived at Prague he made for Thomas’s rooms. Outside the Museum he pulled himself up . . . curse, where exactly did Thomas live? He walked, yes, he walked, shaking with fever, along the road by the Museum; but from where? From which street? Swearing, Prokop wandered round the Museum looking for the most probable direction; he found nothing and went to the Inquiry Office of the police. George Thomas; the dusty official looked through a number of books. Engineer Thomas, George, that, please, is Smichov, such and such a street. Evidently an old address. Nevertheless Prokop flew into Smichov to such and such a street. The caretaker shook his head when he asked for George Thomas. He certainly used to live here, but more than a year ago; where he lived now nobody knew; incidentally he had left all sorts of debts behind him
Crestfallen, Prokop wandered into a coffee-house. “KRAKATIT” hit him in the eyes from the back of a paper. “Will Eng. P. give his address? Carson, Poste Restante.” Well, this Carson will certainly know about Thomas . . . there must be some connection between them. All right then . . . “Carson, Poste Restante. Be at such and such coffee-house to-morrow at mid-day—Eng. Prokop.” Directly he had written this a new idea came into
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