“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?”

“Mrs. Hall sent me that—­ah—­last June—­I think it was in June,” explained Mr. Bangs, hurriedly.  “But you see,” he added, waving an agitated hand toward the gray-shingled dwelling beneath the silver-leafs, “that can’t be the house, not if”—­with a wave of the photograph in the other hand—­“if this is.”

Mr. Pulcifer took the postcard and stared at it.  His brows drew together in a frown.

“Say,” he said, turning toward his passenger, “is this the house you’ve been tryin’ to find?  This is a picture of the old Parker place over to Wellmouth Centre.  I thought you told me you wanted to be took to Joshua Hall’s house in East Wellmouth.”

“Joshua?  Oh, no, I’m sure I never could have said Joshua.  That isn’t his name.”

“Then when I said ‘Josh Hall’ why didn’t you say so?”

“Oh, good gracious!  Did you say ‘Josh?’ Oh, dear, that explains it; I thought you said ‘George.’  My friend’s name is George Hall.  He is an entomologist at the New York Museum of Natural History.  I—­”

“Say,” broke in Raish, again, “is he a tall, bald-headed man with whiskers; red whiskers?”

“Yes—­yes, he is.”

“Humph!  Goes gallopin’ round the fields chasin’ bugs and grasshoppers like a young one?”

“Why—­why, entomology is his profession, so naturally he—­”

“Humph!  So that’s the feller!  Tut, tut, tut!  Well, if you’d only said you meant him ’twould have been all right.  I forgot there was a Hall livin’ in the Parker place.  If you’d said you meant ’Old Bughouse’ I’d have understood.”