rops from Sight'." She
stopped, blushing. "Every woman who gets into print, you know, is
beautiful."

"But it'd be no lie in your case, dearie," put in Mrs. Norton, feeling
carefully of her atrociously blond store hair.

"Your mother takes the words from my mouth," smiled Mr. Magee. "Guard as
they will against it, the newspapers let the truth crop out
occasionally. And this will be such an occasion."

"From what part of Ireland do you come?" laughed the girl. She seemed
somewhat embarrassed by her mother's open admiration. "Well, setting all
blarney aside, such will be the head-lines. And when the last clue is
exhausted, and my press-agent is the same, I come back to appear in a
new play, a well-known actress. Of such flippant things is a Broadway
reputation built."

"We all wish you success, I'm sure." Mr. Magee searched his memory in
vain for this "actress's" name and fame. Could it be possible, he
wondered, at this late day, that any one would try for publicity by such
an obvious worn-out road? Hardly. The answer was simple. Another fable
was being spun from whole cloth beneath the roof of Baldpate Inn. "We
have a New York paper here," he went on, "but as yet there seems to be
no news of your sad disappearance."

"Wouldn't it be the limit if they didn't fall for it?" queried the older
woman.

"Fall for it," repeated Professor Bolton, not questioningly, but with
the air of a scientist about to add a new and rare specimen to his
alcohol jar.

"She means, if they didn't accept my disappearance as legitimate news,"
explained the girl "That would be very disappointing. But surely there
was no harm in making the experiment."

"They're a clever lot, those newspaper guys," sneered Mr. Bland, "in
their own opinion. But when you come right down to it, every one of 'em
has a nice little collection of gold bricks in his closet. I guess
you've got them going. I hope so."

"Thank you," smiled the girl. "You are very kind. You are here, I
understand, because of an unfortunate--er--affair of the heart?"

Mr. Bland smoothed back his black oily hair from his forehead, and
smirked. "Oh, now--" he protested.

"Arabella," put in Mr. Magee, "was her name. The beauties of history and
mythology hobbled into oblivion at sight of her."

"I'm quick to forget," insisted Mr. Bland.

"That does you no credit, I'm sure," replied the girl severely. "And
now, mamma, I think we had better select our rooms--"

She paused. For Elijah