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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