"Gentlemen, we all know, of course, that the modern newspaper man is not a peeping Tom, an impertinent individual, who pries into the affairs of others. Mr. Hale honorably represents an honorable profession. I have known him personally for a number of years and I'll vouch for him. He was sent here by his city editor to cover our reunion. That he comes here at such an unfortunate time is a coincidence. We may speak to him frankly. We are perhaps exaggerating and magnifying what is at worst only a normal thing in the lives of old men. We have all lived our lives and death is--" He paused and at several nods from members of the group he turned to Jimmy. "You come at an unfortunate time, Mr. Hale. Fourteen men were to have gathered here for our reunion. At all our reunions all our members are either present or in some way accounted for. When, for some reason any one of us is unable to come, there is an adequate explanation." He paused, his words were now coming more slowly. Jimmy was now acutely conscious of an air of painful expectancy. "There are only eleven of us here this morning, Mr. Hale. Two of the eleven arrived this morning, early this morning. Until an hour ago we had not heard from the three missing men. At eight o'clock, about an hour ago, we received a telephone message to the effect that August Schurman, of New York, was found dead in his room. He committed suicide." The pause that now ensued was painful. The scene before Jimmy was unreal. Eleven old men, not one of them less than eighty-two years of age, men who had seen, lived and suffered much, were looking at him, each in his own way showing his reaction to the scene. Justice Higginbotham turned an apologetic, whimsical smile to Professor Brierly: "You and I, Professor, and I am sure, the rest of us, can and do look at death calmly. I am sorry to inflict this sort of thing on you, but there are circumstances about this that make it rather painful. The fact that we have not heard from the other two men, Miller and Wrigley, takes on rather ghastly importance." Once more there was a painful pause. Jimmy's mind was phrasing words to describe the scene. The eleven old men, waiting to hear from the other three. The dead stillness of the group, hardly breathing; the mask-like features of Lorenzo Tonti, the suffused features and protuberant eyes of Fletcher, the high cheek bones of Stanislav Vasiliewski, the somber look of former Police Commissioner McGuire, upon whose normally smiling countenance gloom sat so ill. Jimmy's mind also found words and phrases to describe the sparkling waters of Lake Memphremagog, the wooded western shore in the distance. The few boats floating on the surface of the water looked unreal. The faint soft beat of a distant motor equally false. Jimmy hardly breathed; he had a vague unformed desire to hold this scene, to prolong it. There was a silence that was almost painful. Eleven men waiting, waiting for--what?