"From Miner, that runs the Azalea Garage. He come down to the station just now and gave me a package. Something Cokesbury left in the motor the last time he was down. I’m to hand it over to his servant at Jersey City." "Is it love letters that he don’t want to leave behind?" "No, I guess he’s careful of them. Here it is," he drew out of his breast pocket an envelope with Cokesbury’s name and address written on it and held it out to me. "That ain’t no love letter." I pinched it. "It’s a key. It may open the desk where the love letters are kept." "I guess he’s too fly to keep any dangerous papers like that around." "Yes," I says, "they might set the house on fire." "Well, ain’t you the sassy kid," says he and then the train slowing up for a station he walked on up the aisle. In the Jersey City depot I went like a streak for the Telephone Exchange. My one chance was to catch him at dinner and I gave the operator the number of his house. When she pointed to the booth I was trembling like a leaf. The voice that answered me was a woman’s—Irish—the cook’s, I guess. She began right off: "Yes, this is Mr. Cokesbury’s residence, but you can’t see him." "Wait," I almost screamed, scared that she was going to disconnect, "this is important. It’s about a key I’ve just found. If Mr. Cokesbury’s there tell him a lady wants to see him about a key she picked up a few minutes ago on the New Jersey train." "All right. Hold the wire." I knew he’d come. My heart was beating so I had to hold it hard with my free hand and I had to bite my lips to make them limber. But, honest to God, when I heard him—clear and distinct right in my ear—I thought I was going to faint. For at last I’d got the Voice! "What’s this about finding a key?" he said gruff and sharp. "Am I speaking to Mr. Cokesbury?" "You are. Who is it?" "No one you know, sir. I’ve just come in from Philadelphia and on the Pullman step I found a package which seems to have a key in it. I noticed that it was addressed to you and I looked you up in the telephone book and am phoning now from Jersey City." He was very cordial then. His voice was the same deep, pleasant one he’d used to Sylvia. "That’s very kind of you and very thoughtful. I can’t thank you enough. The package was given to the Pullman conductor and he’s evidently dropped it." "Then shall I give it to the Pullman conductor now?" "If you’ll be so kind. My servant’s gone over there to get it. Just hand it to the conductor—a tall, thin man, whose name is Sands." "I’ll do it right off. Ain’t it lucky I found it?" "Very. I’m deeply grateful. It would have put me to the greatest inconvenience if it had been lost. I’d like to know to whom I’m indebted." "Oh, that don’t need to bother you. I’m just a passenger traveling down on the train. Awful glad I could be of any service. Good-bye."