Mr. Pulcifer was not easily startled, but his jerk of surprise sent the
car perilously near the side of the road.

"How in the devil did you know my name?" he demanded.

"Your name? Why, you told me. It is Pulcifer, isn't it?"

"No, no. My first name--Horatio. I never told you that, I'll swear."

Mr. Bangs smiled and the smile made his face look younger.

"Now that's rather odd, isn't it?" he observed. "Quite a coincidence."

"A what?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. I didn't know your name, Mr.--ah--Pulcifer. My
using it was an accident. I was quoting--ah--from Hamlet, you know."

Mr. Pulcifer did not know, but he thought it not worth while advertising
the fact. Plainly this passenger of his was a queer bird, as queer
within as in dress and appearance. He turned his head slightly and
looked him over. It was growing too dark to see plainly, 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.