“It's signed by that Mr. Galushy Bangs of yours,” explained Erastus. “I've got to 'phone it to the telegraph office and there's a word in it I can't make out. Maybe you could help me, Martha, long's Bangs isn't there. 'Tain't nothin' private, I don't cal'late. I'll read it to you if you want I should.” He began to read without waiting for permission. The message was addressed to the Board of Directors of the National Institute at Washington, D. C., and began like this: “Deeply regret necessity of refusing your generous and flattering offer to lead--” It was just here that Mr. Beebe's ability to decipher the Bangs' handwriting broke down. “I can't make out the next word, Martha,” he said. “It begins with an F, but the rest of it ain't nothin' but a string of kinks. It's all head and no tail, that word is.” “What does it look like?” “Hey? Looks like a whiplash or an eel, more'n anything else. It might be 'epizootic' or--or--'eclipsin''--or--The word after it ain't very plain neither, but I kind of think that it's 'expedition.'” “'Expedition'? Is the word you can't make out 'Egyptian'?” “Hey?... 'Egyptian?' Well, I snum, I guess 'tis! 'Egyptian.' . . . Humph! I never thought of that. I--” “Read me the whole of that telegram, Erastus. Read it.” Mr. Beebe read it. “Deeply regret necessity of refusing your generous and flattering offer to lead Egyptian expedition. Do not feel equal to the work. Decision final. Will write.--Galusha Bangs.” Martha's hand shook as it held the receiver to her ear. He had refused the greatest honor of his life. He had declined to carry out the wonderful “plan” concerning which he and she had so often speculated.... And she knew why he had refused. “Erastus! Ras!” she called. “Hello, Ras! Hold that telegram. Don't send it yet. Do you hear?” Mr. Beebe's voice expressed his surprise. “Why, yes, Martha,” he said, “I hear. But I don't know. You see, Mr. Bangs, he sent a note along with the telegram sayin' he wanted it rushed.” “Never mind. You hold it until you hear from me again--or from him. Yes, I'll take all the responsibility. Erastus Beebe, don't you send that telegram.” She hung up the receiver and hurried to the outer door. Galusha was nowhere in sight. Then she remembered that Primmie had said he had gone toward the lighthouse. She threw a knitted scarf over her shoulders, seized an umbrella from the rack--for the walk showed broad splashes where drops of rain had fallen--and started in search of him. She had no definite plan. She was acting as entirely upon impulse as Cabot had acted in seeking their recent interview; but of one thing she was determined--he should not wreck his career if she, in any way, could prevent it.