Part 26 (1/2)

”Why not?” Oh, how maddening women could be!

”Why not?” Magee's tone was hurt. ”Because I couldn't use her information in getting the money for you.”

”You are still 'going to' get the money for me?”

Maddening certainly, as a rough-edged collar.

”Of--” Magee began, but caught himself. No, he would prate no more of 'going to'. ”I'll not ask you to believe it,” he said, ”until I bring it to you and place it in your hand.”

She turned her face slowly to his and lifted her blue eyes.

”I wonder,” she said. ”I wonder.”

The firelight fell on her lips, her hair, her eyes, and Mr. Magee knew that his selfish bachelorhood was at an end. Hitherto, marriage had been to him the picture drawn by the pathetic exiled master. ”There are no more pleasant by-paths down which you may wander, but the road lies long and straight and dusty to the grave.” What if it were so? With the hand of a girl like this in his, what if the pleasant by-paths of his solitude did bear hereafter the ”No Thoroughfare” sign? Long the road might be, and he would rejoice in its length; dusty perhaps, but her smile through the dust would make it all worth while. He stooped to her.

”Give me, please,” he said, ”the benefit of the doubt.” It was a poor speech compared to what was in his heart, but Billy Magee was rapidly learning that most of the pretty speeches went with puppets who could not feel.

Bland and Max came in from a brisk walk on the veranda. The mayor of Reuton, who had been dozing near the desk, stirred.

”Great air up here,” remarked Mr. Max, rubbing his hands before the fire. ”Ought to be pumped down into the region of the white lights. It sure would stir things up.”

”It would put out the lights at ten p. m.,” answered Mr. Magee, ”and inculcate other wholesome habits of living disastrous to the restaurant impresarios.”

Miss Norton rose and ascended the stairs. Still the protesting Magee was at her heels. At the head of the stair she turned.

”You shall have your final chance,” she said. ”The mayor, Max and Bland are alone in the office. I don't approve of eavesdropping at Baldpate in the summer--it has spoiled a lot of perfectly adorable engagements. But in winter it's different. Whether you really want to help me or not I'm sure I don't know, but if you do, the conversation below now might prove of interest.”

”I'm sure it would,” Magee replied.

”Well, I have a scheme. Listen. Baldpate Inn is located in a temperance county. That doesn't mean that people don't drink here--it simple means that there's a lot of mystery and romance connected with the drinking.

Sometimes those who follow the G.o.d of chance in the card-room late at night grow thirsty. Now it happens that there is a trap-door in the floor of the card-room, up which drinks are frequently pa.s.sed from the cellar. Isn't that exciting? A hotel clerk who became human once in my presence told me all about it. If you went into the cellar and hunted about, you might find that door and climb up into the card-room.”

”A bully idea,” agreed Mr. Magee. ”I'll hurry down there this minute.

I'm more grateful than you can guess for this chance. And this time--but you'll see.”

He found the back stairs, and descended. In the kitchen the hermit got in his path.

”Mr. Magee,” he pleaded, ”I consider that, in a way, I work for you here. I've got something important to tell you. Just a minute--”

”Sorry,” answered Magee, ”but I can't possibly stop now. In an hour I'll talk to you. Show me the cellar door, and don't mention where I've gone, there's a good fellow.”

Mr. Peters protested that his need of talk was urgent, but to no avail.

Magee hurried to the cellar, and with the aid of a box of matches found a ladder leading to a door cut in the floor above. He climbed through dust and cobwebs, unfastened the catch, and pushed cautiously upward. In another minute he was standing in the chill little card-room. Softly he opened the card-room door about half an inch, and put his ear to it.

The three men were grouped very close at hand, and he heard Mr. Bland speaking in low tones:

”I'm talking to you boys as a friend. The show is over. There ain't no use hanging round for the concert--there won't be none. Go home and get some clean collars and a square meal.”

”If you think I'm going to be shook off by any fairy story like that,”

said the mayor of Reuton ”you're a child with all a child's touching faith.”