o shoot."

He paused. A look of fright passed over his face. For on the floor above
they both heard soft footsteps--then a faint click, as though a door had
been gently closed.

"This inn," whispered Bland, "has more keys than a literary club in a
prohibition town. And every one's in use, I guess. Remember. Don't try
to come down-stairs. I've warned you. Or Arabella's cast-off Romeo may
be found with a bullet in him yet."

"I shan't forget, what you say," answered Mr. Magee. "Shall we look
about up-stairs?"

Bland shook his head.

"No," he said. "Go in and go to bed. It's the down-stairs that--that
concerns me. Good night."

He went swiftly down the steps, leaving Mr. Magee staring wonderingly
after him. Like a wraith he merged with the shadows below. Magee turned
slowly, and entered number seven. A fantastic film of frost was on the
windows; the inner room was drear and chill. Partially undressing, he
lay down on the brass bed and pulled the covers over him.

The events of the night danced in giddy array before him as he closed
his eyes. With every groan Baldpate Inn uttered in the wind he started
up, keen for a new adventure. At length his mind seemed to stand still,
and there remained of all that amazing evening's pictures but one--that
of a girl in a blue corduroy suit who wept--wept only that her smile
might be the more dazzling when it flashed behind the tears. "With
yellow locks, crisped like golden wire," murmured Mr. Magee. And so he
fell asleep.

CHAPTER IV

A PROFESSIONAL HERMIT APPEARS

Every morning at eight, when slumber's chains had bound Mr. Magee in his
New York apartments, he was awakened by a pompous valet named Geoffrey
whom he shared with the other young men in the building. It was
Geoffrey's custom to enter, raise the curtains, and speak of the weather
in a voice vibrant with feeling, as of something he had prepared himself
and was anxious to have Mr. Magee try. So, when a rattling noise came to
his ear on his first morning at Baldpate Inn, Mr. Magee breathed
sleepily from the covers: "Good morning, Geoffrey."

But no cheery voice replied in terms of sun, wind, or rain. Surprised,
Mr. Magee sat up in bed. About him, the maple-wood furniture of suite
seven stood shivering in the chill of a December morning. Through the
door at his left he caught sight of a white tub into which, he recalled
sadly, not even a Geoffrey could coax a glittering drop. Yes--he was at
Baldpate Inn. He