the long vista of rooms he could see Cousin Jasper in his
study, sitting before his desk, and, fancying himself unseen,
suddenly bowing his head in his hands.

"It won't do," thought Oliver determinedly, "he must have some one to
help him, some one that knows more about this wretched business. There
is that Cousin Tom he talks about, Eleanor's father. I can't think of
any one else. I will send for him."

If he could only have found the Beeman! He even searched the telephone
book for the name of Marshall, but found none. And he had never
discovered where the Beeman and Polly lived. Yes, the only choice was
Cousin Tom.

He got the connection with some difficulty and asked for Mr. Brighton.

"Mr. Brighton is at dinner," returned the smooth voice of a
well-trained servant; "he cannot be interrupted."

"But this is very important," insisted Oliver. "I am quite sure that
if he knew----"

"My orders are that he is not to be disturbed," was the politely firm
answer while the boy raged and fumed impotently.

"Then tell him," Oliver directed, "that his cousin, Mr. Jasper Peyton,
is in very great trouble and needs to see him as--as soon as he finds
it quite convenient."

His voice was trembling with anger and he slammed down the receiver
without waiting for a reply.

"There was no use sending for him, after all," he reflected in black
discouragement. He was not used to such treatment nor did he think
that a man should surround himself with so much ceremony that he could
not hear a plea for help. "He is just what Cousin Eleanor's father
would be," was his disgusted verdict. "I was a fool to hope for any
help there. If it had been the Beeman----"

Never had the house seemed so enormous or so silent as it was
to-night. He went out through a swinging door, attempting to find the
kitchen, fumbling down a passage, feeling in likely places for
electric buttons, and not discovering them. He bumped his head against
unexpected doors and cupboards, he upset something with a horrifying
crash in the butler's pantry. At last he found the right door and the
proper light switch, and stood in the big, shining white kitchen,
looking about him helplessly at all the complicated apparatus of
cookery, clean, polished, and complete, and utterly useless to him.

"This is no place for a boy," he exclaimed stormily after he had
pinched his fingers in a drawer, spilled the water, and produced a
roaring, spitting flame in the gas burner that bl