ne, Mr. Dexter. My name's Crabbin."
The speaker was a stout middle-aged young man with a natural tonsure and one of the thickest pairs of horn-rimmed glasses that Martins had ever seen.
He went apologetically on, "One of our chaps happened to ring up Frankfurt and heard you were on the plane. H. Q. made one of their usual foolish mistakes and wired you were not coming. Something about Sweden but the cable was badly mutilated. Directly I heard from Frankfurt I tried to meet the plane, but I just missed you. You got my note?"
Martins held his handkerchief to his mouth and said obscurely, "Yes. Yes?"
"May I say at once, Mr. Dexter
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"Good of you."
"Ever since I was a boy, I've thought you the greatest novelist of our century."
Martins winced! It was painful opening his mouth to protest. He took an angry look instead at Mr. Crabbin, but it was impossible to suspect that young man of a practical joke.
"You have a big Austrian public
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Martins was thinking hard. "Did you say--room for a week?"
"Yes."
"Very kind of you."
"Mr. Schmidt here will give you tickets every day, to cover all meals. But I expectyilai：
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