“I’m not interested in your affairs. I want to get in touch with Mr. Monteith.”

The old man felt as if he had been slapped in the face, but he only blinked and hurried away in his bare feet to get his notebook. When he came back, drawing his bathrobe over his shivering shoulders, he made his statements haughtily.

“The name of the young man with Mr. Monteith was Mr. Devereaux, Lance Devereaux. He lives in the village at the foot of our mountain. The servant tells me that he heard Mr. Devereaux call his home and he wrote down the number. It is Collamer 23-R-2. That is all the information I have. Good night!” And he hung up.

But Demeter Cass did not even know she was reproved. She had all the information she wanted, or if she hadn’t she could call Mr. Watt again and ask for more. She rang vigorously for the operator and demanded Collamer 23-R-2.

And so—it was something after two o’clock on Christmas morning—just as Alan Monteith was drifting off into peaceful sleep, conscious of warmth and rest and peace and well-being, he suddenly heard the sound of the telephone just outside his door. It somehow blended with his thoughts before he slept, or his dreams as he drifted into unconsciousness, and it seemed to him it must be that Harold person once more. But as the ringing persisted he came broadly awake, with the unpleasant conclusion that Harold had come himself and had started out in the storm to come to the farm, and perhaps he was in distress and needed someone to come to his rescue.

He prodded his weary thoughts until he had reasoned it out. If that Harold had got himself into trouble and someone had to go to his rescue, it would have to be himself. Certainly Lance must not go again with his lame ankle. Obviously the old man could not go or the girls. It would have to be himself! And could he get himself together and face that storm again? Yet he must if there was a need. The man might not be worth rescuing, but the girl with the lovely eyes was troubled about him, and that was enough. Something would have to be done. And yet, how could he? It would require a superhuman effort just to raise himself from that warm bed, just to get his tired limbs into motion again and get his clothes!

All the while the telephone bell continued, and he began to think perhaps he should go and answer it himself. Then he heard a soft stirring above, and padded slippers stole down the stairs. The receiver was lifted off, and Daryl’s quiet voice answered. It had a frightened note in it. She expected it to be the Harold person, too, and she was afraid! He recalled the drunken voice that had shrilled out to the girl early in the afternoon and listened for it again. He felt a wrath rising in his soul for any brute who would treat such a girl like that! He felt he would really enjoy, tired as he was, getting up and giving that fellow a good sound thrashing! Brute! So he listened for the voice again. He would be able to tell from a few words what had happened, and would get up and slip on some garments and be ready in case the fellow was in trouble and needed assistance.

But it was not a man’s voice that shrilled out on the quiet house.