Mr. Pulcifer bent and lighted the second lamp. Then he straightened once
more and turned toward his questioner.

"_I_ understand, young feller," he said, "but you don't seem to. I don't
want to buy nothin'. I've got all I want. That's plain enough, ain't
it?"

"But--but--All you want? Really, I--"

"All I want of whatever 'tis you've got in that bag. I never buy nothin'
of peddlers. So you're just wastin' your time hangin' around. Trot along
now, I'm on my way."

He stepped to the side of the car, preparatory to climbing to the
driver's seat, but the person with the suitcase followed him.

"Pardon me," faltered that person, "but I'm not--ah--a peddler. I'm
afraid I--that is, I appear to be lost. I merely wish to ask the way
to--ah--to Mr. Hall's residence--Mr. Hall of Wellmouth."

Raish turned and looked, not at the suitcase this time, but at the
face under the hat brim. It was a mild, distinctly inoffensive face--an
intellectual face, although that is not the term Mr. Pulcifer would have
used in describing it. It was not the face of a peddler, the ordinary
kind of peddler, certainly--and the mild brown eyes, eyes a trifle
nearsighted, behind the round, gold-rimmed spectacles, were not those
of a sharp trader seeking a victim. Also Raish saw that he had made
a mistake in addressing this individual as "young feller." He was of
middle age, and the hair, worn a little longer than usual, above his