That night an obviously frightened person called up and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.

“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said.

“Oh — ” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”

I was relieved too for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby's grave. I didn't want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd so I'd been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.

“The funeral's tomorrow,” I said. “Three o'clock, here at the house. I wish you'd tell anybody who'd be interested.”

“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I'm not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”