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Then I tackles the 'phone, which results in three snappy conversations with a grouchy butler at sixty cents a throw, but no real dope on the Beckhams or their guests. Well, it's near two A.M. when I fin'lly lands in Quehassett, which is no proper time to call on anybody's aunt. Everything is shut tight too; so I spreads out an evenin' edition on a baggage truck and turns in weary.

"I could almost guess that from the lid you're wearin'," says I. "One of Miss Vee's, ain't it?" She pinks up and goes gaspy at that. "Please," she begins pleadin', "if you would not mention " "I might forget to," I breaks in, "if you'll tell me where I can find 'em quickest." And Celeste gets the information out rapid. They're house-partyin' at the Morley Beckhams, over at Quehassett, Long Island.

I'd overlooked pullin' down the front shades to the station, though, and the next thing I knew the sun was hittin' me square in the face. I wanders around Quehassett until a Dago opens up a little fruitstand. He sold me some bananas and a couple of muskmelons for breakfast, and points out which road leads to Rosemere.

And when I'd caught another train back to the right junction I got the pleasin' bulletin that the next for Quehassett is the theater train, that comes along somewhere about midnight. So there I was hung up in a rummy little commuter town where the chief industry is sellin' bungalow sites on the salt marsh.

"Rosemere" is the name of the joint. "Me for Quehassett!" says I, dashin' for the elevator. But, say, I needn't have lost my breath. Parts of Long Island you can get to every half-hour or so; but Quehassett ain't one of 'em. Huntin' it up on the railroad map, I discovers that it's 'way out to the deuce and gone on the north shore, and the earliest start I can get is the four o'clock local.