It was a long vigil he had begun, but there was no boredom in it for Billy Magee. He was too great a lover of contrast for that. As he looked around on the ill-assorted group he guarded, he compared them with the happier people of the inn's summer nights, about whom the girl had told him. Instead of these surly or sad folk sitting glumly under the pistol of romantic youth he saw maids garbed in the magic of muslin flit through the shadows. Lights glowed softly; a waltz came up from the casino on the breath of the summer breeze. Under the red and white awnings youth and joy and love had their day--or their night. The hermit was on hand with his postal-carded romance. The trees gossiped in whispers on the mountain. And, too, the rocking-chair fleet gossiped in whispers on the veranda, pausing only when the admiral sailed by in his glory. Eagerly it ran down its game. This girl--this Myra Thornhill--he remembered, had herself been a victim. After Kendrick disappeared she had come there no more, for there were ugly rumors of the man who had fled. Mr. Magee saw the girl and her long-absent lover whispering together in the firelight; he wondered if they, too, imagined themselves at Baldpate in the summer; if they heard the waltz in the casino, and the laughter of men in the grill-room. Ten o'clock, said the town hall pompously. She was at the station now. In the room of her tears she was waiting; perhaps her only companion the jacky of the "See the World" poster, whose garb was but a shade bluer than her eyes. Who was she? What was the bribe money of the Suburban Railway to her? Mr. Magee did not know, but he trusted her, and he was glad she had won through him. He saw Professor Bolton walk through the flickering half-light to join Myra Thornhill and Kendrick. It must be half past by now. Yes--from far below in the valley came the whistle of a train. Now--she was boarding it. She and the money. Boarding it--for where? For what purpose? Again the train whistled. "The siege," remarked Mr. Magee, "is more than half over, ladies and gentlemen." The professor of Comparative Literature approached him and took a chair at his side. "I want to talk with you, Mr. Magee," he said. "A welcome diversion," assented Magee, his eyes still on the room. "I have discussed matters with Miss Thornhill," said the professor in a low voice. "She has convinced me that in this affair you have acted from a wholly disinterested point of view. A mistaken idea of chivalry, perhaps. The infatuation of the moment for a pretty face--a thing to which all men with red blood in their veins are susceptible--a pleasant thing that I would be the last to want banished from the world." "Miss Thornhill," replied Billy Magee, "has sized up the situation perfectly--except for one rather important detail. It is not the infatuation of the moment, Professor. Say rather that of a lifetime."