On a sunny spring day in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and fifteen, a fiacre drove up to a big house in the Lodz, the winding, crescent-shaped street in Serajoz, the capital of Ironia, in which were to be found the Embassies and the residences of the wealthier class. There was nothing singular, apparently, in that particular fiacre driving up to that particular house. Fiacres in scores drove up there and drove away again day after day the year through and occasioned little remark. Yet if certain influential gentlemen in Ironia had known who it was that jumped out of the fiacre on that sunny spring day, and if these influential Ironians had had the gift of prophetic vision in…
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