She went out quickly, and Magee, locking the door after her, thrust the key into his pocket. For a moment no one stirred. Then Mr. Max leaped up and ran through the flickering light to the nearest window. There was a flash, a report, and Max came back into the firelight examining a torn trousers leg. "I don't mean to kill anybody," explained Mr. Magee. "Just to wing them. But I'm not an expert--I might shoot higher than I intend. So I suggest that no one else try a break for it." "Mr. Magee," said Miss Thornhill, "I don't believe you have the slightest idea who that girl is, nor what she wants with the money." "That," he replied, "makes it all the more exciting, don't you think?" "Do you mean--" the professor, exploded, "you don't know her? Well, you young fool." "It's rather fine of you," remarked Miss Thornhill. "It's asinine, if it's true," the professor voiced the other side of it. "You have said yourself--or at least you claim to have said--" Mr. Magee reminded him, "one girl like that is worth a million suffragettes." "And can make just as much trouble," complained Professor Bolton. "I shall certainly see to it that the hermit's book has an honored place in our college library." Out of the big chair into which he had sunk came the wail of the uncomprehending Cargan: "He's done this thing to me--after all I've done for him." "I hope every one is quite comfortable," remarked Mr. Magee, selecting a seat facing the crowd. "It's to be a long wait, you know." There was no answer. The wind roared lustily at the windows. The firelight flickered redly on the faces of Mr. Magee's prisoners. CHAPTER XVII THE PROFESSOR SUMS UP In Upper Asquewan Falls the clock on the old town hall struck nine. Mr. Magee, on guard in Baldpate's dreary office, counted the strokes. She must be half-way down the mountain now--perhaps at this very moment she heard Quimby's ancient gate creaking in the wind. He could almost see her as she tramped along through the snow, the lovely heroine of the most romantic walk of all romantic walks on Baldpate to date. Half-way to the waiting-room where she had wept so bitterly; half-way to the curious station agent with the mop of ginger hair. To-night there would be no need of a troubadour to implore "Weep no more, my lady". William Hallowell Magee had removed the cause for tears.