"They're a clever lot, those newspaper guys," sneered Mr. Bland, "in their own opinion. But when you come right down to it, every one of 'em has a nice little collection of gold bricks in his closet. I guess you've got them going. I hope so." "Thank you," smiled the girl. "You are very kind. You are here, I understand, because of an unfortunate--er--affair of the heart?" Mr. Bland smoothed back his black oily hair from his forehead, and smirked. "Oh, now--" he protested. "Arabella," put in Mr. Magee, "was her name. The beauties of history and mythology hobbled into oblivion at sight of her." "I'm quick to forget," insisted Mr. Bland. "That does you no credit, I'm sure," replied the girl severely. "And now, mamma, I think we had better select our rooms--" She paused. For Elijah Quimby had come in through the dining-room door, and stood gazing at the group before the fire, his face reflecting what Mr. Magee, the novelist, would not have hesitated a moment in terming "mingled emotions". "Well," drawled Mr. Quimby. He strode into the room. "Mr. Magee," he said, "that letter from Mr. Bentley asked me to let you stay at Baldpate Inn. There wasn't anything in it about your bringing parties of friends along." "These are not friends I've brought along," explained Magee. "They're simply some more amateur hermits who have strolled in from time to time. All have their individual latch-keys to the hermitage. And all, I believe, have credentials for you to examine." Mr. Quimby stared in angry wonder. "Is the world crazy?" he demanded. "Any one 'd think it was July, the way people act. The inn's closed, I tell you. It ain't running." Professor Bolton rose from his chair. "So you are Quimby," he said in a soothing tone. "I'm glad to meet you at last. My old friend John Bentley has spoken of you so often. I have a letter from him." He drew the caretaker to one side, and took an envelope from his pocket. The two conversed in low tones. Quickly the girl in the corduroy suit leaned toward Mr. Magee. She whispered, and her tone was troubled: "Stand by me. I'm afraid I'll need your help." "What's the matter?" inquired Magee. "I haven't much of any right here, I guess. But I had to come." "But your key?" "I fear my--my press-agent--stole it." A scornful remark as to the antiquated methods of that mythical publicity promoter rose to Mr. Magee's lips, but before he spoke he looked into her eyes. And the remark was never made. For in their wonderful depths he saw worry and fear and unhappiness, as he had seen them there amid tears in the station. "Never mind," he said very gently, "I'll see you through." Quimby was standing over Mr. Bland. "How about you?" he asked. "Call up Andy Rutter and ask about me," replied Bland, in the tone of one who prefers war to peace.