a tremendous bellow sounded. The fog seemed to quiver with it.

"WHAT is that?" asked Mr. Bangs, nervously. "I've heard it ever since I
left the train, I believe. Some sort of a--ah--steam whistle, isn't it?"

"Foghorn over to the light," replied Raish, briskly. "Well, sir, here
you 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