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 The last word was a long sprawling scrawl, written as one might write whose hand was trembling, whose eyes were dim with tears. Upon that trembling scrawl he pressed his lips, hastily folded it up, put it in his breast pocket, and then flew to the telephone.

Eagerly he hunted the book for the number of the Swan, fearful least he should not find it there. But the place proved to be of suffi- cient importance to own a telephone, and he rang up the number. Interminable seemed the wait, as it always does when one is hanging on to the line; but presently that low humming sound reached his ear which denotes connec- tion.

“Hullo!”

“Hullo! Is that the Swan at Staines?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

This was a quandary. How had Androm- eda named herself? He hesitated, but not for long. There was only one course open to him, and he took it as a desperate venture.

“Will you tell Mrs. Vermont that her hus- band wants to speak to her?”

“Mrs. who?”

“Mrs. Vermont.” 290