He slept over the garage, and about four in the morning—he looked at his watch afterward—was awakened by a sound down below in the garage. He listened and made sure that someone was trying to roll the doors back very slow and with as little noise as possible. Casey’s a bold, nervy boy, and he reached for his revolver and crept barefooted to the head of the stairs. On the top step he stooped down and looked through the banisters, and saw against the big square of the open doors a man standing, with a car behind him shining in the moonlight. He thought it was a burglar, so, with his revolver up and ready, he called: "Hello, there. What are you doing?" The man gave a great start, and then he heard Mr. Reddy’s voice: "Oh, Casey, did I wake you? I’ve come back unexpectedly. Help me get this car in." They ran the car in, and, when Casey went to tell how he thought it was a burglar and was going to shoot, he noticed that Mr. Reddy hardly listened to him, but was gruff and short. All he said was that he’d changed his mind about the trip, and then unstrapped his trunk from the back and turned to go. In the doorway he stopped as if he’d had a sudden thought, and said over his shoulder: "You don’t want to mention this in Longwood. I’m getting a little sick of the gossip there over my affairs." Casey went back to bed and in the morning, when he looked at the car, found it was caked with mud, even the wind-guard spattered. At seven he crossed over to the house for his breakfast and told the Gilseys that Mr. Reddy was back. They were surprised, but decided, as he’d been out so late, they’d not disturb him till he rang for his breakfast. Monday morning was clear and sharp, the first real frost of the season. All the time I was dressing I was thinking about the elopement and how queer it was Mrs. Fowler saying they’d gone by turnpike and Jim Donahue saying he’d seen Sylvia leave on the train. I worked it out that they’d made some change of plans at the last moment. But the _way_ they’d eloped didn’t matter to me. Small things like that didn’t cut any ice when I was all tormented wondering if it was for the best that my hero should marry a wild girl who no one could control. I hadn’t been long at the switchboard, and was sitting sideways in my chair looking out of the window when I saw Dr. Fowler’s auto drive up with the Doctor and a strange man in it. I twirled round quick and was the business-like operator. I’ll bet no one would have thought that the girl sitting so calm and indifferent in that swivel chair was just boiling with excitement and curiosity. The Doctor looked bad, yellow as wax, with his eyes sunk and inflamed. He didn’t take any notice of me beside a fierce sort of look and a gruff, "Give me Corona 1-4-2."