noticed. Carrie Gootch stayed on to answer the telephone. Here, Carrie!â
Miss or Mrs. Gootch trotted out of the kitchen, tray in hand. She placed it on one of the tables, and began to distribute cups and plates. Sanderson watched her hungrily.
âCarrie, these people want to know about a telephone call that came in about eight oâclock last night fromâwhere did you say, Mr. Mitchell?â
âHarbour Inn, Portsmouth.â
Carrie advanced down the length of the barn. âI sent it along down,â she said, peering through her glasses.
Mitchell gave a deep sigh. âSo thatâs that. Now, maâam, Iâd be obliged if youâd give me an idea what he said.â
âWhat did he say?â she meditated, while tension gripped the âPottery Pig.â
âYou write âem down, donât you?â Mitchell restrained himself with difficulty from leading the witness. âThink. Young feller in a hotel, trying to get a messageâimportant messageâto Mr. Arthur Atwood.â
âIt wasnât so very important. Letâs see. I and the help had washed up, and she had went home; we both live down the street. I fooled around, dusted the china animals and the pig, and sat down to read and wait for ten oâclock.â
âYou were leaving the place at ten?â
âWe take the receiver off the hook then, and donât it make the Oakport operator mad! Well, about eight, the bell rung.â
Everybody, including the two painters, held their breath.
âYoung feller says: âThis where they take calls for Seal Cove?â I sez: âYes, it is.â He says: âIt has to git there to-night.â I sez: âIt will if I can find a boy.â He sez: âIâll hold the line till you find one.â So I went out back and hollered to Misâ Brown at the âJolly Little Shop.â Her boy come running. He does all the odd jobs for us round here, and he takes stuff down to the Cove. I sez to the feller on the phone: âHereâs the boy; now what?â He says: âWrite it down. Itâs for Arthur Atwood, from Amberley Cowden.â And he spelled it all out for me.â
âToo good to be true,â said Gamadge to the roof beams. âThings donât happen like this. Thereâs a catch in it, somewhere. It wasnât in code, or anything, was it, MissâerâMrs.ââ
âMrs. Carrie Gootch. There wasnât no code, and there wasnât no catch.â
Mitchell was jubilant. âGo right ahead and tell us what it said, maâam. This young feller here has codes on the brain.â
ââMisâ Gootch,â he sez. âTell him Amberley Cowdenâs been sick, and weâre layinâ up for a couple of hours at the Harbour Inn, Portsmouth. Tell him weâre goinâ to start not later than ten, and weâll git to Fordâs Beach to-night. Tell him, plans unchanged.ââ
There was a long and painful silence, made still more painful by Gamadgeâs attempt to hum. At last Mitchell enquired anxiously: âYou sure that was all?â
âEvery last word.â
âBut you couldnât be expected to remember it all. If you thought it overââ
âI donât have to think it over. He spelled out most every other word, like as if I was deaf, or something; and I had to repeat it back to him twice.â
âNot a thing about what those plans were, that he wasnât going to change?â
âNot a thing.â
âAll right. Thanks.â
âYour dinnerâs ready. You ainât goinâ to let them waffles cool off, be you?â
âNo. Think you can get hold of that Brown boy for us?â
âI kin try.â She left by the side door, and the party sat down at their table. Conversation lapsed while they consumed food and coffee, Gamadge merely observing gloomily: âThere certainly was a catch, and
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