This is simply a chapter of coincidences. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. The telegram reminded Ann Veronica that she had no place for interviews except her bed-sitting-room, and she sought her landlady and negotiated hastily for the use of the ground floor parlor, which very fortunately was vacant. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. "Weigh anchor, Van!" he shouted to the skipper, "and consult your despatches. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it.
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