The postalgraph machine stood to one side of the entry way. Blake stepped over to it and pulled out the sheet of paper projecting from its face. The message was written in precise bold hand and was short and formal. It read:

If Mr. Andrew Blake should find it convenient to contact Mr. Ryan Wilson at the town of Willow Grove, he might learn something to his great advantage.

Blake held the sheet gingerly between, his fingers. It was incredible, he thought. It smelled of melodrama.

'Willow Grove? he asked.

Said the House, 'We'll look it up.

'If you please, said Blake.

'A bath can be ready in a moment, said the House, 'if that is what you wish?

'Food, also, can be ready soon, yelled the Kitchen. 'What does the master wish?

'I think, said Blake, 'I would like some food. How about some ham and eggs and a slice or two of toast.

'Something else could be made as easily, said the Kitchen. 'Welsh rarebit? Lobster thermidor?

'Ham and eggs, said Blake.

'How about the decor? asked the House. 'We have had the present one for an unseemly length of time.

'No, Blake told it, wearily. 'leave it as it is. Leave the decor be. It doesn't really matter.

'Of course it matters, the House said, tartly. 'There is such a thing as…

'Just leave it be, said Blake.

'As you wish, master, said the House.

'Food first, said Blake, 'then the bath, then off to bed. It's been quite a day.

'And the message?

'Forget about it now. We'll think of it tomorrow.

'The town of Willow Grove, said the House, 'is northwest of here. Fifty-seven miles. We looked it up.

Blake walked across the living-room into the dining-room and sat down at the table.

'You have to come and get it, wailed the Kitchen. 'I can't bring it to you.