"You ain't going to see any skirts up here," Mr. Bland promised him. And
Mr. Peters, bringing the water from below, took occasion to point out
that shaving was one of man's troubles directly attributable to woman's
presence in the world.

At length the hermit summoned them to breakfast, and as they descended
the broad stair the heavenly odor of coffee sent a glow to their hearts.
Peters had built a rousing fire in the big fireplace opposite the
clerk's desk in the office, and in front of this he had placed a table
which held promise of a satisfactory breakfast. As the three sat down,
Mr. Bland spoke:

"I don't know about you, gentlemen, but I could fall on Mr. Peters' neck
and call him blessed."

The gentleman thus referred to served them genially. He brought to Mr.
Magee, between whom and himself he recognized the tie of authorship, a
copy of a New York paper that he claimed to get each morning from the
station agent, and which helped him greatly, he said, in his eternal
search for the woman. As the meal passed, Mr. Magee glanced it through.
Twice he looked up from it to study keenly his queer companions at
Baldpate Inn. Finally he handed it across the table to the haberdasher.
The dull yellow sun of a winter morning drifted in from the white
outdoors; the fire sputtered gaily in the grate. Also, Mr. Peters'
failing for literature interfered in no way with his talents as cook.
The three finished the repast in great good humor, and Mr. Magee handed
round cigars.

"Gentlemen," he remarked, pushing back his chair, "we find ourselves in
a peculiar position. Three lone men, knowing nothing of one another, we
have sought the solitude of Baldpate Inn at almost the same moment. Why?
Last night, before you came, Professor Bolton, Mr. Bland gave me as his
reason for being here the story of Arabella, which I afterward
appropriated as a joke and gave as my own reason. I related to Mr. Bland
the fiction about the artist and the besieging novelists. We swapped
stories when you came--it was our merry little method of doubting each
other's word. Perhaps it was bad taste. At any rate, looking at it in
the morning light, I am inclined to return Mr. Bland's Arabella, and no
questions asked. He is again the lovelorn haberdasher. I am inclined to
believe, implicitly, your story. That is my proposition. No doubts of
one another. We are here for whatever reasons we say we are."

The professor nodded gravely.

"Last night," went on