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 you wanted to be took to Joshua Hall's house in East Wellmouth.”
“Joshua? Oh, no, I'm sure I never could have said Joshua. That isn't his name.”
“Then when I said 'Josh Hall' why didn't you say so?”
“Oh, good gracious! Did you say 'Josh?' Oh, dear, that explains it; I thought you said 'George.' My friend's name is George Hall. He is an entomologist at the New York Museum of Natural History. I—”
“Say,” broke in Raish, again, “is he a tall, bald-headed man with whiskers; red whiskers?”
“Yes—yes, he is.”
“Humph! Goes gallopin' round the fields chasin' bugs and grasshoppers like a young one?”
“Why—why, entomology is his profession, so naturally he—”
“Humph! So THAT'S the feller! Tut, tut, tut! Well, if you'd only said you meant him 'twould have been all right. I forgot there was a Hall livin' in the Parker place. If you'd said you meant 'Old Bughouse' I'd have
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