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?”