“Oh, _do_!” she cried, enthusiastically, glad to seem a part of the mystery at last, and she turned to go with him. “Do you want to call up Fred Patterson to bring his car? Are you getting up a party, Paul? What’s the——” He had rushed ahead of her and was at the open front door of the house. “Where do you keep it?” he called back to her. “Wait! It’s in the back hall. Wait till I show you,” she cried; but he ran into the house, found the telephone, and was busy with it before she reached him. “Did you get Fred’s number?” she asked, eagerly. He was smiling and his eyes were bright with anticipations that seemed to concern not Elsie but the instrument before him. He did not look at her or seem even to hear her, but moved the nickeled prong up and down impatiently. “Can’t you get him?” Elsie inquired, and she laughed loudly. Her air was that of a person secretly engaged with another upon a jocular enterprise bound to afford great entertainment. “Old Fred _is_ the slowest old poke, isn’t he? Suppose _I_ try, Paul.” Young Mr. Reamer’s eyes wandered to her and lost their lustre, becoming dead with absent-mindedness immediately. He said nothing. “Let me try to get that funny old Fred,” Elsie urged in the same eager voice; and she stretched forth a hand for the instrument. Upon this he moved his shoulder in her way, turning from her, and at the same time a small voice crackled in the telephone. Mr. Reamer’s brightness of expression returned instantly. “You bet it’s me!” he said. “And if you don’t hurry up here in that old tin boat of yours, you’re going to get killed! The whole gang’s out here on the curbstone, simply raving, right in front of Elsie Hemingway’s.” “I believe it _is_ Fred!” Elsie exclaimed. “I believe you’ve got him after all. Does he say——” “You better hurry!” the young man said to the mouthpiece as he dropped the receiver into its hook. Then, as he turned toward the door, he seemed to become conscious, though vaguely, that he was not alone. “Much ’bliged, Elsie,” he said. “Goo’bye!” “Wait. Wait just a minute, Paul.” “What for?” “Fred isn’t on his way yet, I don’t suppose,” she said, timidly. “Let’s—let’s wait in Papa’s library till he comes. There are some pretty interesting books in there I’d like to show you. Papa’s great on bindings and old editions. Wouldn’t you like to see some of ’em?” “Well, another day maybe,” he answered, obviously surprised. “You see Mamie Ford and all the girls are out there, and I——” “Wait,” she begged, for he was in motion to depart. “Aren’t you ever coming to see me again, Paul?” “What?” He appeared to have no comprehension of her meaning. “Aren’t you ever coming to see me again?” She laughed lightly, yet there was a tremor in her voice. “I don’t believe you’ve been in our house for over two years, Paul.” “Oh, yes, I have,” he returned. “I must have been here a whole lot in that much time. G’bye, Elsie; the girls are——”