"Hello! What is it? Who is it? Why in thunder don't you--"

"Please, sir, it's me."

The reply came faintly through the dining room. Some one was knocking at
the kitchen door. The apologetic tones sounded feminine, however, and
Wade was in no costume to receive lady visitors. He looked desperately
around for his dressing-gown and remembered that it was in his trunk and
that his trunk still reposed in the porter's room of a Boston hotel.

"Who--who is 'me'?" he called.

"Zephania."

Zephania! Who in thunder was Zephania?

"I'm very sorry, Miss Zephania, but I'm not dressed yet. If you wouldn't
mind calling again in, say, half an hour--"

"Please, sir, I'll wait."

"Oh, well--er--was there something you wanted?"

"Please, sir, I've come to do for you."

To do for him! Wade clasped his knees with his arms and frowned
perplexedly at the big stove. It was distinctly threatening. He wondered
how she intended to accomplish her awful purpose. Perhaps she had
stopped in the woodshed and secured the axe. To do for him! Then he
laughed and sprang out of bed. It was Zenas Prout's girl, and she had