He glanced again at the object which had raised a sudden hope within him. At the far end of the house, standing out at right angles from it, and partly hidden by vines, was an old battered sign: WALTER LORD PHOTOGRAPHER "I've got the right house, anyway, and without any lost motion," thought Peter. "And that's the luck of the Irish--as far as it goes." He paid the driver the "two bits" suggested as the amount of the fare. The sum was paid so unconcernedly that the driver lingered while Peter stepped quickly up to the front door and rang the old jangling bell. A man as free as that with money didn't come to Hobart Falls so often. Peter had made up his mind that he would spend the night there, in any case, if the "Widder Lord" would take him in. He knew he would have to take a taxi (he thought in city terms) to Kortenkill, two stations below, to catch the midnight train, which did not stop at Hobart Falls, if he were to go back to town that night, and the thought of bumping over the bad roads in a pre-historic flivver, after being up most of the previous night, made no appeal to him. "I'll make her take me in," thought Peter, and rang the bell again. "Anybody want me?" The voice came from just over Peter's head, but he could see no one, for the roof of the little old Dutch porch hid the speaker. "Who wants me, Josh?" the voice repeated. "Nobuddy wants you, Walt," the driver in the road bawled out. "'S a stranger wants to spend the night. 'S yer sister-in-law to home?" Peter's heart leaped harder, if not so far, as his long legs. One jump, and he was on the narrow brick walk, looking up at an open window from which protruded the quaintest old head he thought he had ever seen. The face was that of a man of seventy or more, but the hair and long sweeping moustache were brilliantly black. The hair was thin and carefully brushed forward above the ears, in a bygone style. Two little twinkling eyes looked down from either side of a long, thin, pointed nose--looked down at Peter in mild surprise. "You wanted to stay the night, Mr.--uh----" "Clancy," Peter supplied, eagerly. "Yes. I want to look around Hobart Falls a little. Could you----This is Mr. Walter Lord, isn't it?" He glanced aside, as if for verification, to the half-hidden sign. "That's me," replied the owner of the craning head, with a smile. "That's me, all right." Peter's heart settled down to a steady beat. "Well, Mr. Lord," he said, "it's just like this. I've got a little business here in Hobart Falls, and I want to spend the night. Josh," he spoke as if the driver, who still lingered, were an old and intimate friend, "Josh thought Mrs. Lord would take me in. I'm sorry she's away, but couldn't you manage to put me up? It'd be a great favour." "Aw, take him in, Walt," urged Josh, from the road. "'N let me know if you'll need a hack again, Mister. I got the best car in the Falls."