“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.” “Bughouse?” “Oh, that's what the Wellmouth post-office gang call him. Kind of a joke 'tis. And say, this is kind of a joke, too, my luggin' you 'way over here, ain't it, eh? Haw, haw!” Mr. Bangs' attempt at a laugh was feeble. “But what shall I do now?” he asked, anxiously.