at floor, and bore a placard reading:

FERME

A CAUSE DU JOUR DE FETE

"_Nu!_" Morris said, after he had read and re-read the notice a number
of times, "what are we going to do _now_?"

"This is the last hair," Abe said, "because you know how it is with
these Frenchers, if they close for a death in the family, it is liable
to be a matter of weeks already."

"Maybe it says gone to lunch, will be back in half an hour," Morris
suggested, hopefully.

"Not a chance," Abe declared. "More likely it means this elegant office
with every modern improvement except an elevator, steam heat, and
electric light, to be sublet, because it would be just our luck that the
commission agent is back in New York right now with a line of brand-new
model gowns, asking our bookkeeper will either of the bosses be back
soon."

"We wouldn't get back in ten years, I'll tell you that, unless we
hustle," Morris declared. He led the way down-stairs to the ground
floor, where, after a few minutes, they managed to attract the attention
of the _concierge_, who emerged from her shelter at the foot of the
stairs and in rapid French explained to Abe and Morris that all Paris
was celebrating with a public holiday the arrival of President Wilson.

"It's a funny thing about the French language," Morris said, as she
concluded. "Even if you don't understand what the people mean, you could
'most always tell what they've been eating, which if the French people
was limited by law to a ton of garlic a month per person, Abe, this lady
would go to jail for the rest of her life."

"_Attendez!_" said the _concierge_. "_Au dessus il ya un monsieur qui
parle anglais._"

She motioned for them to wait and ascended the stairs to the floor
above, where they heard her knock on an office door. Evidently the
person who opened it was annoyed by the interruption, for his voice--and
to Abe and Morris it was a strangely familiar voice--was raised in angry
protest.

"Now listen," said the tenant, "I told you before that I've only got
this place temporarily, and as long as I am in here I don't want you to
do no cleaning nor nothing, because the air is none too good here as it
is, and furthermore--"

He proceeded no farther, however, for Abe and Morris had taken the
stairs three at a jump and began to wring his hands effusively upon the
principle of any port in a storm.

"Well, well, well, if it ain't Leon Sammet!" Abe cried, and his manner
was as cordial a