“Couldn’t,” he murmured in a low voice. “She went away ’fore I had the chance. She didn’t come back yet.” “That’s all right, son,” said the young man pleasantly, “That’s all I want to know. May I trouble you for the package?” “I got it hid.” “Get it, please!” “Junior!” broke forth Nannette’s indignant voice, “come here to me this instant.” But Junior’s bare heels were flying up the stairs, and before his mother could pursue him he returned with a small indiscriminate bundle which he thrust over the balustrade where it disappeared inside the visitor’s coat. “All right, Buddie, the bat is yours when you call for it tomorrow. At the old stand. You know.” “Aw’right!” answered Junior with delight in his eyes. It was plain that his mother was nowhere in his vision while this hero was in sight. The young man turned and walked swiftly back through the sitting room past the angry father and mother and over to the door. With the door knob firmly grasped in his hand he turned once more and faced his host: “I happened to see Miss Radway alone on a lonely road quite late last night and was interested to know if she reached home in safety. I thought perhaps we might work together to find her if there was any necessity. But since you do not care to coöperate I will wish you good evening.” The young man flashed a distant smile and opening the door was gone, before the man and woman realized what he was about to do. For an instant they looked at each other speechless. Then Nannette broke forth: “You ought to have asked him where he saw her! Go after him quick! Don’t let him get away!” Stung into action Eugene opened the door and called into the night: “Oh, I say! Come here! Wait a minute!” But his words seemed to float out on emptiness. Eugene stood in the door for a moment listening, but there seemed to be no echo of footsteps. Yet it was scarcely a second since the visitor had stood inside the door. Where could he have gone? It was almost uncanny. Nannette came and looked out the door, and Eugene hurried down the walk calling out again, but no answer came, and his own voice seemed to mock him. He looked up and down the street, but saw no one. He walked around the house, and back to the gate again. There was no sound of automobile in the quiet moonlit street. Everybody had gone to bed and the lights were out. Strange! How could the man have disappeared? “Junior! Who was that man?” screamed Nannette remembering and rushing back into the house. But Junior had a realizing sense of his disloyalty to his family, and had fled to his bed with the clothes tucked tightly around his ears, and his eyes screwed shut as if in deep slumber. When rudely shaken into being he yawned reprovingly and asked, “What man?” Nannette brought him at last to a proper appreciation of the necessity and he nonchalantly replied, “Oh, him? He’s our coach, Darce Sherwood. You just oughta see him pitch a ball. He’s some cracker-jack pitcher.”