Did he see Kaffar?

“Yes,” was the reply.

“Where is he now?”

He was in a beautiful town.  The houses were white, the streets were white; the town was full of squares, and in these squares were many statues.  Such was Simon’s information.

“Do you know what country the town is in?”

“No,” said Simon, shaking his head.

“Could you not by any means find out?  There’s a railway station in the town; can you not see the name there?”

“Yes, there’s a railway station, a fine one.  Ah, I see the name now.  T-O-R-I-N-O.  TORINO, that’s it.”

“Torino!” I cried, “Turin!  That’s a town in Italy, some distance beyond the French border.”

The professor beckoned me to be quiet.

“Kaffar is at Torino, is he?” said the professor.

“That’s it—­yes.”

“What is he doing?”

“Talkin’ with a man who keeps an hotel.”

“What does he say?”

“It’s in a foreign language, and I can’t tell.”

“Can you repeat what he said?”

“It sounded like this—­’Je restey ici pour kelka jour;’ but I can’t make out what it means.”

The professor turned to me.

“He’s speaking French.  I did not know Kaffar knew French; perhaps he’s learned it lately.  The words mean that he will stay there for some days.”

“Can you describe the street in which this hotel is?” continued Von Virchow.

Simon began to describe, but we could make nothing of it.

“We can’t understand,” replied the professor.  “Can you draw a sketch of the road to it from the railway station?” and he put a piece of paper and pencil in Simon’s hand.

Without hesitating, Simon drew a sketch, a facsimile of which is given on the opposite page.

I had been to Turin, and remembered some of the places the sketch indicated.  It might be far from perfect, but it was sufficient for me.  It would be child’s play to find Kaffar there.

“That will do,” I said to the professor.  “I’ll start at once.  Thank you so much.”

“Ah, that will do, will it?” he said, with a smile.  “Then I’ll wake up this man.”

Simon woke up as usual, rubbing his eyes, and asked whether any good had been done.

“Everything’s been done,” cried I.  “Come, professor, allow me to write you a cheque.  How much shall it be?”

“Not a penny until your work is accomplished,” replied the little man, with dignity.

“That is not fair,” I said.  “I don’t know what may happen, and you must not be defrauded.  Anyhow, here’s something on account;” and I put a twenty-pound note in his hand.

He smiled as he looked at it, while I took my hat, and stated my intention to start for Turin at once.

“Beggin’ yer pardon,” said Simon, “but this ’ere waccination business is awfully wearyin’, and I should like to—­that is—­”

“The very thing,” I replied, anticipating his request.  “You shall go with me.”