got out to investigate. On both sides of the road were tall
hemlocks and through them to the west we could see the waters of
Sippican Harbor in the last yellow rays of the sun as it sank
behind Rochester. Overhead was the great harvest moon.

Polly had taken from the pocket of the car some maps and
guide-books, and while I lifted the hood and was deep in the
machinery she was turning them over.

"What," she asked, "is the number of this car? I forget."

As I have said, I was preoccupied and deep in the machinery; that
is, with a pair of pliers I was wrestling with a recalcitrant wire.
Unsuspiciously I answered: "Eight-two- eight"

A moment later I heard a sharp cry, and raised my head. With eyes
wide in terror Polly was staring at an open book. Without
appreciating my danger I recognized it as "Who's Who in
Automobiles." The voice of Polly rose in a cry of disbelief.

"Eight-two-eight," she read, "owned by Fletcher Farrell, Hudson
Apartments, New York City." She raised her eyes to mine.

"Is that true?" she gasped. "Are you Fletcher Farrell?" I leaned
into the car and got hold of her hand.

"That is not important," I stammered. "What is important is this:
Will you be Mrs. Fletcher Farrell?"

What she said may be guessed from the fact that before we returned