“Don’t feel too bad about it, Joe,” he said, as he bade them good night. “I know you wanted to go home, but I’ll tell the folks you’re comfortable.” He started off in the drizzle. They had run down about seven miles, and there was that length of muddy road ahead of him. It was not his fortune to accomplish much of his journey, however. Three miles up the island, the storm resumed its fury, blowing the rain fiercely in his face, while the whole island seemed to shake with the crashing of the thunder. It was useless to contend against it, and, at length, he turned in at a farmhouse by the roadside, and sought shelter. “Yes, indeed,” said the housewife, to his request. “There’s the spare room at the end of the hall up-stairs for you, and welcome. There’s wood in the wood-box, too, and you can build up a fire in the fireplace and dry your clothes. You’re as wet as a drowned cat. When you’re dried out, come down-stairs and I’ll have a cup of tea for you. We’ve had a boarder for two days in that room, but he went away yesterday; and I’m glad he’s gone, for your sake.” George Warren scrambled up the stairs, at the risk of the lamp which the woman had handed to him, lighted. Inside the room, he took a handful of kindling from the wood-box, and soon had it ablaze, with the aid of a few scraps of old newspaper. Then he laid some larger pieces of driftwood across, and quickly had a cheerful fire roaring up the chimney. He threw off his wet clothing, wrapped a blanket about him, and crouched by the fire to enjoy its warmth—for he had been chilled through. The huge, old-fashioned fireplace would seem not to have been used for a long time; for, in the corners of it were odds and ends and scraps of paper, that had evidently been swept up from the floor and thrown in there, as the most convenient place for their disposal. George Warren poked some of this stuff into the fire and watched it blaze. He picked up a few scraps of paper and threw them in. Then, as he repeated this action, there was the half of an envelope that the light of the fire illuminated, as he held it in his hand. Part of the address remained, and, even as he consigned it to the flames, he read it clearly: “Carleton, “Bellport, “Me.” “Hello! that’s funny,” he remarked. “That’s Mr. Carleton’s name—and he was over at Bellport, too. I thought he had gone away to Boston. I’ll have to ask about him in the morning.” But, in his hurry next morning, George Warren forgot about the letter until he was a half-mile up the road. “I’ll have to tell Henry Burns and Harvey about that, anyway,” he said, as he walked along. “Henry Burns likes mysteries. He’ll have some queer notion about why Mr. Carleton was down there, I’ll bet.”