but one or two points were obvious. For instance, the yellow leather suitcase was brand new and the overcoat was old. It was shiny about the cuffs. The derby hat—and in October, in Wellmouth, derby hats are seldom worn—the derby hat was new and of a peculiar shade of brown; it was a little too small for its wearer's head and, even as Raish looked, a gust of wind lifted it and would have sent it whirling from the car had not Mr. Bangs saved it by a sudden grab. Raish chuckled.
“Come pretty nigh losin' somethin' overboard that time, didn't you?” he observed.
Mr. Bangs pulled the brown derby as far down upon his head as it would go.
“I—I'm afraid I made a mistake in buying this hat,” he confided. “I told the man I didn't think it fitted me as it should, but he said that was because I wasn't used to it. I doubt if I ever become used to it. And it really doesn't fit any better to-day than it did yesterday.”
“New one, ain't it?” inquired Raish.
“Yes, quite new. My other blew out of the car window. I bought this one at a small shop near the station in Boston. I'm afraid it wasn't a very good shop, but I was in a great hurry.”
“Where was you comin' from when your other one blew away?”
“From the mountains.”
“White Mountains?”
“Yes.”
Raish said that he wanted to know and waited for his passenger to say something more. This the passenger did not do. Mr. Pulcifer whistled a bar or two of his “Follies” song and then asked another question.
“You any relation to Josh?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Eh? Oh, that's all right. I just asked you if you was a relation of Josh's—of Hall's, I mean, the folks you're goin' to see.”
“Oh, no, no. We are not related. Merely
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