the track and so I--well I scarcely expected to reach his
house so easily."

Raish had forgotten his "off the track" statement, which was purely a
commercial fiction invented on the spur of the moment to justify the
high price he was charging for transportation. He was somewhat taken
aback, but before he could think of a good excuse his companion spoke
again. He was leaning forward, peering out at the house before which the
car had stopped. It was a small, gray-shingled dwelling, sitting back
from the road in the shadow of two ancient "silver-leafs," and Mr. Bangs
seemed to find its appearance surprising.

"Are you--are you SURE this is the Hall cottage?" he stammered.

"Am I sure? Me? Well, I ought to be. I've lived in East Wellmouth all my
life and Josh Hall's lived in this house ever since I can remember."

This should have been reassuring, but it did not appear to be. Mr.
Pulcifer's passenger drew a startled breath.

"What--WHAT is his Christian name?" he asked. "The--the Mr. Hall who
lives here?"

"His name is--Why? What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid there has been a mistake. Is this Mr. Hall an entomologist?"

"Eh? He ain't nothin' in particular. Don't go to meetin' much, Josh
don't. His wife's a Spiritu'list."

"But--but, I mean--Dear me, dear me!" Mr. Bangs was fumbling in the
inside pocket of his coat. "If I--Would you mind holding this for me?"
he begged. "I have a photograph here and--Oh, thank you very much."

He handed Pulcifer a small pocket electric lamp. Raish held it and into
its inch of light Mr. Bangs thrust a handful of cards and papers taken
from a big and worn pocketbook. One of the handful was a postcard with a
photograph upon its back. It was a photograph of a pretty, old-fashioned
colonial house with a wide porch covered with climbing roses. Beneath
was written: "This is our cottage. Don't you think it attractive?"

"Mrs. Hall sent me that--ah--last June--I think it was in June,"
explained Mr. Bangs, hurriedly. "But you SEE," he added, waving
an agitated hand toward the gray-shingled dwelling beneath the
silver-leafs, "that CAN'T be the house, not if"--with a wave of the
photograph in the other hand--"if THIS is."

Mr. Pulcifer took the postcard and stared at it. His brows drew together
in a frown.

"Say," he said, turning toward his passenger, "is this the house you've
been tryin' to find? This is a picture of the old Parker place over to
Wellmouth Centre. I thought you told me yo