Part 8 (1/2)

”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 authors.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sed, 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 Mr. Magee, ”there was some talk between Mr. Bland and myself about one of us leaving the inn. Mr. Bland demanded it. I trust he sees the matter differently this morning. I for one should be sorry to see him go.”

”I've changed my mind,” said Mr. Bland. The look on his thin face was not a pleasant one. ”Very good,” went on Mr. Magee. ”I see no reason why we should not proceed on friendly terms. Mr. Peters has agreed to cook for us. He can no doubt be persuaded to attend to our other wants. For his services we shall pay him generously, in view of the circ.u.mstances.

As for Quimby--I leave you to make your peace with him.”

”I have a letter to Mr. Quimby from my old friend, John Bentley,” said the professor, ”which I am sure will win me the caretaker's warm regard.”

Mr. Magee looked at Bland.

”I'll get Andy Rutter on the wire,” said that gentleman. ”Quimby will listen to him, I guess.”

”Maybe,” remarked Magee carelessly. ”Who is Rutter?”

”He's manager of the inn when it's open,” answered Bland. He looked suspiciously at Magee. ”I only know him slightly,” he added.

”Those matters you will arrange for yourselves,” Mr. Magee went on. ”I shall be very glad of your company if you can fix it to stay. Believe it or not--I forgot, we agreed to believe, didn't we?--I am here to do some writing. I'm going up to my room now to do a little work. All I ask of you gentlemen is that, as a favor to me, you refrain from shooting at each other while I am gone. You see, I am trying to keep crude melodrama out of my stuff.”

”I am sure,” remarked Professor Bolton, ”that the use of firearms as a means of social diversion between Mr. Bland and myself is unthought of.”

”I hope so,” responded Magee. ”There, then, the matter rests. We are here--that is all.” He hesitated, as though in doubt. Then, with a decisive motion, he drew toward him the New York paper. With his eyes on the head-lines of the first page, he continued: ”I shall demand no further explanations. And except for this once, I shall make no reference to this story in the newspaper, to the effect that early yesterday morning, in a laboratory at one of our leading universities, a young a.s.sistant instructor was found dead under peculiar circ.u.mstances.”

He glanced keenly at the bald-headed little man across from him. ”Nor shall I make conversation of the fact,” he added, ”that the professor of chemistry at the university, a man past middle age, respected highly in the university circle, is missing.”

An oppressive silence followed this remark. Mr. Bland's sly eyes sought quickly the professor's face. The older man sat staring at his plate; then he raised his head and the round spectacles were turned full on Magee.

”You are very kind,” said Professor Bolton evenly.

”There is another story in this paper,” went on Mr. Magee, glancing at the haberdasher, ”that, it seems to me, I ought to taboo as table talk at Baldpate Inn. It relates that a few days ago the youthful cas.h.i.+er of a bank in a small Pennsylvania town disappeared with thirty thousand dollars of the bank's funds. No,” he concluded, ”we are simply here, gentlemen, and I am very glad to let it go at that.”

Mr. Bland sneered knowingly.

”I should think you would be,” he said. ”If you'll turn that paper over you'll read on the back page that day before yesterday a lot of expensive paintings in a New York millionaire's house were cut from their frames, and that the young artist who was doing retouching in the house at the time has been just careless enough not to send his address to the police. It's a small matter, of course, and the professor and I will never mention it again.”