be.”
The car rolled up to the side of the road and stopped.
“Here you be, Mr. Bangs,” repeated Mr. Pulcifer. “Here's where Hall lives, right here.”
Mr. Bangs seemed somewhat astonished. “Right here?” he asked. “Dear me, is it possible!”
“Possible as anything ever you knew in your life. Why not? Ain't sorry, are you?”
“Oh, no—no, indeed, I'm very glad. I was—ah—a trifle surprised, that is all. You said—I think you spoke of Mr. Hall's cottage as being—ah—off 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
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