Then what’s he doin’ here?”

“Changin’ his duds, I guess. That’s what I’d do if I looked as much like a drowned rat as he did.”

“’Lisha Warren! if you ain’t the most provokin’ thing! Don’t be so unlikely. You know what I mean. What’s he come here, to this house, for?”

“Don’t know, Abbie. I didn’t know he was comin’ here till just as we got down yonder by Emery’s corner. I asked him who he was lookin’ for, he said ‘Elisha Warren,’ and then the tree caved in on us.”

“’Lisha, you—you don’t s’pose ’twas a—sign, do you?”

“Sign?”

“Yes, a sign, a prophecy-like, a warnin’ that somethin’ is goin’ to happen.”

The captain put back his head and laughed.

“Sign somethin’ had happened, I should think,” he answered. “What’s goin’ to happen is that Pete Shattuck’ll get his buggy painted free-for-nothin’, at my expense. How’s supper gettin’ along? Is it ready?”

“Ready? It’s been ready for so long that it’ll have to be got ready all over again if.... Oh! Come right in, Mr. Graves! I hope you’re drier now.”

Captain Warren sprang from the chair to greet his visitor, who was standing in the doorway.

“Yes, come right in, Mr. Graves,” he urged, cordially. “Set down by the fire and make yourself comf’table. Abbie’ll have somethin’ for us to eat in a jiffy. Pull up a chair.”

The lawyer came forward hesitatingly. The doubts which had troubled him ever since he entered the house were still in his mind.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said. “But before I accept more of your hospitality I feel I should be sure there is no mistake. I have come on important business, and—”

“Hold on!” The captain held up a big hand. “Don’t you say another word,” he commanded. “There’s just one business that interests me this minute, and that’s supper. There’s no mistake about that, anyhow. Did you say ‘Come ahead,’ Abbie? or was you just going to? Good! Right into the dinin’ room, Mr. Graves.”

The dining room was long and low. The woodwork was white, the floor green painted boards, with braided rag mats scattered over them. There were old-fashioned pictures on the walls, pictures which brought shudders to the artistic soul of Atwood Graves. A broad bay window filled one side of the apartment, and in this window, on shelves and in wire baskets, were Miss Baker’s cherished and carefully tended plants. As for the dining table, it was dark, old-fashioned walnut, as were the chairs.

“Set right down here, Mr. Graves,” ordered the captain. “I’ll try to keep you supplied with solid cargo, and Abbie’ll ’tend to the moistenin’. Hope that teapot is full up, Abbie. Hot tea tastes good after you’ve swallered as much cold rain as Mr. Graves and I have.... Father-we-thank-thee-for-these-mercies-set-before-us-Amen.... How’s your appetite when it comes to clam pie, Mr. Graves?”

Mr. Graves’s appetite was good, and the clam pie was good. So, too, were the hot biscuits and the tea and homemade preserves and cake. Conversation during the meal was, for the most part, a monologue by the captain. He gave Miss Baker a detailed and exaggerated account of his adventures in Ostable, on board the train, and during the drive home. The housekeeper listened, fidgeting in her chair.

“’Lisha Warren,” she interrupted, “how you do talk! Rainin’ so hard you had to hold the reins taut to keep the horse’s head out of water so he wouldn’t drown! The idea!”

“Fact,” asserted Captain Warren, with a wink at his guest. “And that wa’n’t the worst of it. ’Twas so dark I had to keep feelin’ the buggy with my foot to be sure I was in it. Ain’t that so, Mr. Graves?... Here! Abbie won’t like to have you set lookin’ at that empty plate. She’s always afraid folks’ll notice the gilt’s wearin’ off. Pass it over quick, and let me cover it with some more pie.”

“Yes, and have some more tea,” urged Miss Abbie. “You mustn’t pay attention to what he says, Mr. Graves,” she went on. “Some day he’ll tell the truth by accident, and then I’ll know it’s time to send for the doctor.”

Several times the lawyer attempted to mention the business which had brought him to the Cape, and the probability of his having made a mistake. But neither host nor housekeeper would listen.

“When you’ve been in South Denboro as long as I have,” declared the former, “you’ll understand that the time to talk business is when you can’t think of anything else. Wait till we get into the settin’ room. Abbie, those six or eight biscuits I’ve ate are gettin’ lonesome. I’ll take another for sociability, thank you.”

But, at last, when all the biscuits but one were gone, and the cake plate looked like the Desert of Sahara, the captain pushed back his chair, rose, and led the way into the next room. Miss Baker remained to clear the table.

“Set down by the fire, Mr. Graves,” urged the captain. “Nothin’ like burnin’ wood to look hot and comf’table, is there? It don’t always make you feel that way—that’s why I put in hot water heat—but for looks and sociableness you can’t beat a log fire. Smoke, do you?”

“Yes. Occasionally. But, Captain Warren—”

“Here, try that. It’s a cigar the Judge gave me over to Ostable. He smokes that kind reg’lar, but if you don’t like it, throw it away. He ain’t here to see you do it, so you won’t be fined for contempt of court. I’ll stick to a pipe, if you don’t mind. Now we’re shipshape and all taut, I cal’late. Let’s see, you wanted to talk business, I believe.”

“Yes, I did. But before I begin I should like to be sure you are the Elisha Warren I came from New York to interview. Is there another of that name in Denboro?”

“Um-hm. There’s Warrens a-plenty all through this section of the Cape. Our family blew ashore here a hundred and fifty years ago, or such matter. My dad’s name was Elisha; so was my grandfather’s. Both sea cap’ns, and both dead. There’s another Elisha livin’ over on the shore lane.”

“Indeed. Then perhaps it is he I want.”

“P’raps. He’s keeper of the town poorhouse. I can tell you better if you give me an idea what your business is.”

“I am an attorney. And now let me ask another question, please. Have you—had you a brother in business in New York?”

“Hey?” The captain turned and looked his guest squarely in the eye. His brows drew together.

“I’ve got a brother in New York,” he answered, slowly. “Did he send you here?”

“Was your brother’s name A. Rodgers Warren?”

“‘A. Rodgers’? No. His name is Abijah Warren, and—Wait! His middle name is Rodgers, though. Did ’Bije send you to me?”

“A moment, Captain. Was your brother a broker?”

“Yes. His office is—or used to be on Broad Street. What—”

“You have not heard from him for some time?”

“Not for eighteen years. He and I didn’t agree as well as we might. Maybe ’twas my fault, maybe ’twas his. I have my own ideas on that. If you’re lookin’ for ’Bije Warren’s brother, Mr. Graves, I guess you’ve come to the right place. But what he sent you to me for, or what he wants—for he wants somethin’, or he wouldn’t have sent—I don’t understand.”

“Why do you think he wanted something?”

“Because he’s ’Bije Warren, and I was brought up with him. When we was young ones together, he went to school and I went to work. He got the frostin’ on the cake,