Part 6 (2/2)

Mr. Bland continued. Mr. Magee leaned back, overjoyed, in his chair.

Here was a man not to be annoyed by the mere filching of his story. Here was a man with a sense of humor--an opponent worthy his foe's best efforts. In his role of a haberdasher overcome with woe, Mr. Magee listened.

”I used to paint dames like that,” Bland was saying to the dazed professor. He explained how his pictures had enabled many a novelist to ”eat up the highway in a buzz-wagon.” As he approached the time when the novelists besieged him, he gave full play to his imagination. One, he said, sought out his apartments in an aeroplane.

”Say, Professor,” he finished, ”we're in the same boat. Both hiding from writers. A fellow that's spent his life selling neckties--well, he can't exactly appreciate our situation. There's what you might call a bond between you and me. D'ye know, I felt drawn to you, just after I fired that first shot. That's why I didn't blaze away again. We're going to be great friends--I can read it in the stars.”

He took the older man's hand feelingly, shook it, and walked away, casting a covert glance of triumph at Mr. Magee.

The face of the holder of the Crandall Chair of Comparative Literature was a study. He looked first at one young man, then at the other. Again he applied the handkerchief to his s.h.i.+ning head.

”All this is very odd,” he said thoughtfully. ”A man of sixty-two--particularly one who has long lived in the uninspired circle surrounding a university--has not the quick wit of youth. I'm afraid I don't--but no matter. It's very odd, though.”

He permitted Mr. Magee to escort him into the hall, and to direct his search for a bed that should serve him through the scant remainder of the night. Overcoats and rugs were pressed into service as cover. Mr.

Bland blithely a.s.sisted.

”If I see any newspaper reporters,” he a.s.sured the professor on parting, ”I'll damage more than their derbies.”

”Thank you,” replied the old man heartily. ”You are very kind. To-morrow we shall become better acquainted. Good night.”

The two young men came out and stood in the hallway. Mr. Magee spoke in a low tone.

”Forgive me,” he said, ”for stealing your Arabella.”

”Take her and welcome,” said Bland. ”She was beginning to bore me, anyhow. And I'm not in your cla.s.s as an actor.” He came close to Magee.

In the dim light that streamed out from number seven the latter saw the look on his face, and knew that, underneath all, this was a very much worried young man.

”For G.o.d's sake,” cried Bland, ”tell me who you are and what you're doing here. In three words--tell me.”

”If I did,” Mr. Magee replied, ”you wouldn't believe me. Let such minor matters as the truth wait over till to-morrow.”

”Well, anyhow,” Bland said, his foot on the top step, ”we are sure of one thing--we don't trust each other. I've got one parting word for you.

Don't try to come down-stairs to-night. I've got a gun, and I ain't afraid to shoot.”

He paused. A look of fright pa.s.sed 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 bra.s.s 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.

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