I realized my mistake, and bit my lip to keep an audible gasp from the line. The gentleman wasn’t at the Arcade on 35th Street. He was at the Arcade on the Bowery. I’d read in The New Yorker that uptown hotels like the Majestic, the Savoy, the Nassau, and the Astor had supplied the names of downtown lodgings, much to the dismay of the hoteliers. Of all the arcades to which I could have misdirected Miss Lily’s call—a shopping arcade, a shooting gallery, penny amusements, or even a dirty-pictures show—I had routed her to a Bowery flophouse.