"All right! All right!" said Ryder. "But this isn't getting us anywhere. We all know our wrongs. Let's see what can be done to stop the fellow's deviltry." "By Jove!" exclaimed a man at his elbow. "Here Bangs is turning us out and along come other guests. What do you know about that?" "How could anyone get here at this hour with that bridge in that condition?" queried Jimson. "Couldn't get an auto over it." "Oh, anyone that was eager enough to come could get punted over the inlet. Must have come down on that train that does not stop at Barr, though, and motored back from the first stop below--unless a big enough party was on to make a special stop possible." But it was a single guest only who entered the foyer and office of the hotel. This man had no luggage and he stood for a moment nervously drawing off his gloves as his glance swept swiftly the faces of those in sight. George, the clerk, stepped to the turntable on which the register rested. It was not a grateful task to inform the man who had just come what the situation of affairs was. Ryder noticed the stranger only casually at first. The group of excited men, whom he was tailing toward the café, were slow in leaving the vicinity of the hotel desk. When the clerk had explained the situation as well as he was able the disappointed guest stood back, nervously rolling his gloves and with an expression of indetermination upon his face. Finally he asked George a question in a low voice. "No, sir. Nobody by that name in the house, sir," the clerk said. One of the boys came through the foyer intoning the name of a guest: "Mr. White's wanted. Mr. White! Mr. White!" Nobody gave the boy any attention at first, and he approached the desk still singsonging the name of the man wanted. "Who's wanted?" asked George, the clerk, briskly. "Message for Mr. White. His wife wants him upstairs--Suite Three." "White?" repeated the clerk. "What White's that? I didn't know----" Just then Ryder, looking back over his shoulder, chanced to see again the face of the last comer to the hotel. He was as pale as death; Ryder could see the drops of perspiration standing on his broad, high brow. He was staring at the bellboy as though in the latter he beheld a ghost. Suddenly, while the puzzled clerk bent over the register evidently in search of the name "White" among those of the new arrivals at Pinewood Inn, the stranger darted at the bellboy. "Who--who is asking for Mr. White?" Ryder heard the man gasp. "Mrs. White. She wants him. Suite Three," repeated the boy. "Mr. John B. White." The emotions displayed in succession upon the stranger's countenance ran the gamut of human expression. Amazement, incredulity, rage, determination--a dozen different feelings evidently gripped the man's mind and soul. Ryder had his own attention recalled with difficulty by Colonel Brack, who stuck his head out of the swinging door of the café, crying: