“Well, well!” exclaimed Mr. Gooch, holding the doorknob in one hand and the candle-stick in the other—making it obviously impossible for him to shake hands with what might after all turn out to be a cadaver. “You—you certainly gave me quite a scare.” He peered narrowly, intently at the weather-beaten face of his wife’s brother. Old Oliver was looking around the hall as if inspecting a most unfamiliar place. Mr. Gooch, closing the door, risked a timid slap on the other’s shoulder, and was greatly relieved to find that it was solid. Mr. Baxter did not take kindly to this demonstration. He winced. “Say, don’t do that,” he said. “I’ve got rheumatism in that shoulder. Comes from sleeping out in the open air a good bit of the time this fall.” Mr. Gooch stepped back, the better to survey his brother-in-law’s person. There was every indication that Mr. Baxter had taken the precaution to sleep in his clothes pretty steadily all fall. They were wrinkled and dusty and hung limply, crookedly on his graceless frame. The coat collar was turned up and held tight to his throat by a thick red muffler. He wore a sad-looking green Homberg hat with a perky red feather sticking up from the band. “Take off your muffler,” said Horace, desiring indisputable evidence. “Oh, it’s there all right,” divined Mr. Baxter. “You can feel it if you don’t believe me. It’s just as well you didn’t offer to shake hands with me, Horace. I swore I’d never shake hands with you.” “Come out to the kitchen,” said Gooch, scowling. “It’s warm there, and besides you might like a cup of hot coffee.” “All I want is a bed to sleep in. I haven’t slept in a regular bed for the Lord knows how long. Thank God, I’ll be sleeping in my own to-morrow night.” He followed the puzzled Mr. Gooch to the kitchen and at once drew a chair up to the stove. “Where have you been all this time?” murmured Horace, generously replenishing the fire. “Oh—traveling,” said Mr. Baxter casually. He removed his hat and placed it on the floor beside the chair. Mr. Gooch leaned over and scrutinized the top of his guest’s head. Then he deliberately felt of it. “What are you doing?” demanded Mr. Baxter sharply. “Oh—I was just wondering if—But never mind. Now, Ollie, tell me all about yourself. We’ve been hunting for you all over the—” Oliver’s cackle interrupted him. “Like chasing a flea, wasn’t it?” he chuckled. “Before we go any farther,” he went on seriously, “tell me about my boy Oliver. How is he? Hasn’t been hung yet, has he?” “Not yet,” said Mr. Gooch sententiously. He placed a chair on the opposite side of the stove and sat down. “Well, he’s in no danger now,” said Mr. Baxter. “And what’s more, he never was in any danger of being hung. That gypsy woman lied.” “That’s what I said at the time. Didn’t I tell you what a darned fool you were?” “How’s my boy, and where is he? I telephoned him three times to-night but the doggoned system’s always out of order. Couldn’t get any answer.”