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Oakport. Presently he said: “They have no telephone up there, Mr. Cowden.”
    â€œWhat? There must be one. That’s crazy.”
    â€œNo, sir, they haven’t. No number listed.”
    â€œPerhaps they’re all asleep. Ring them again.”
    â€œNo number to ring.”
    â€œI don’t understand. It’s a theatre. They must have a telephone.”
    â€œWait a minute.” Sam again interviewed Oakport, and came back with the news: “They ain’t installed yet. They only been there a week, and the poles was all down. There’s been a lot of trouble with outlying districts since the storm last fall. Operator can get you Tucon.”
    â€œWhere’s that?”
    â€œLittle place on the back route from Oakport to Portland. They been getting their messages and telegrams left there in some store. Operator has the number. They might take your call, and ride down to the Cove with it.”
    â€œOh, well; I hate to get them up, this time of night.”
    â€œIt’s only a little place. Might not anybody be around, late as this.”
    â€œI should think those people at the Cove would be wild.”
    â€œI should, too.”
    â€œWell, it’s not so important as all that. I guess—”
    Sanderson’s voice said: “Amby, you are a jackass. I’ll get him for you first thing in the morning. Now will you quit? I want to go to bed. I’m all in.”
    â€œI see now why there wasn’t any message for me to-night.”
    â€œOf course. He couldn’t get through. Quit, will you?”
    â€œAll right, Sam.”
    The receiver clicked. Sam exchanged some words with Oakport, and returned to his magazine. He was deep in it, when a curious sound on the stairs beside him made him look up, and then stare, transfixed. The sound had been, as he thought, laboured breathing.
    He gazed incredulously at the pallid, smiling face, the tweed coat, the white silk muffler, the thick yellow chamois gloves, and the Panama hat; and he spoke as he had never before spoken to a guest of the Ocean House:
    â€œWhat you doing down here?”
    â€œOh, you’re there, are you? I wasn’t sure you would be.”
    â€œCertainly I’m here.”
    â€œI thought you might be making your rounds. You do, don’t you?”
    â€œYes, I do. You ain’t going out, Mr. Cowden?”
    â€œNot if you’ll do something for me. I dropped my cigarette case. I had it in the car, and I know just where it must be—right outside, near the steps. It must have fallen out of my coat when Hugh Sanderson was helping me down.”
    Sam, remembering that awkward exit from the front seat, was not surprised to hear that something had been dropped in the process; but he continued to stare.
    â€œWhy didn’t you telephone down?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you send—”
    â€œSanderson’s dead on his feet; I’m as fresh as a daisy. I had two solid hours in bed, at Portsmouth.”
    â€œYou could have telephoned.”
    â€œThey’re not asleep, yet. They might have heard me. I want my cigarette case; it’s a good one.”
    â€œYou were going poking out in this fog, lookin’ for it? You must be crazy. You turn right round and go on back up to bed. I’ll find it, if it’s there.” Sam got up, and produced a big torch from under the counter.
    â€œAll right. Keep your hair on. You can stick it in a drawer, till morning.”
    â€œI’d put it in the safe, only the safe’s locked.”
    â€œJust stick it in a drawer.”
    â€œYou go on up to bed. Your aunt will be crazy,” said Sam, unconsciously using the tone that he would have employed for a bad boy, rather than a young man who had just come of age. He refused the dollar that was offered him over the banisters.
    â€œI haven’t found it yet,” he said. “To-morrow will do.” He went out, poked for some time about