"My name's Magee," blithely explained that gentleman, dragging in his bags. "And you're Elijah Quimby, of course. How are you? Glad to see you." His air was that of one who had known this Quimby intimately, in many odd corners of the world. The older man did not reply, but regarded Mr. Magee wonderingly through white puffs of smoke. His face was kindly, gentle, ineffectual; he seemed to lack the final "punch" that send men over the line to success; this was evident in the way his necktie hung, the way his thin hands fluttered. "Yes," he admitted at last. "Yes, I'm Quimby." Mr. Magee threw back his coat, and sprayed with snow Mrs. Quimby's immaculate floor. "I'm Magee," he elucidated again, "William Hallowell Magee, the man Hal Bentley wrote to you about. You got his letter, didn't you?" Mr. Quimby removed his pipe and forgot to close the aperture as he stared in amazement. "Good lord!" he cried, "you don't mean--you've really come." "What better proof could you ask," said Mr. Magee flippantly, "than my presence here?" "Why," stammered Mr. Quimby, "we--we thought it was all a joke." "Hal Bentley has his humorous moments," agreed Mr. Magee, "but it isn't his habit to fling his jests into Upper Asquewan Falls." "And--and you're really going to--" Mr. Quimby could get no further. "Yes," said Mr. Magee brightly, slipping into a rocking-chair. "Yes, I'm going to spend the next few months at Baldpate Inn." Mrs. Quimby, who seemed to have settled into a stout little mound of a woman through standing too long in the warm presence of her stove, came forward and inspected Mr. Magee. "Of all things," she murmured. "It's closed," expostulated Mr. Quimby; "the inn is closed, young fellow." "I know it's closed," smiled Magee. "That's the very reason I'm going to honor it with my presence. I'm sorry to take you out on a night like this, but I'll have to ask you to lead me up to Baldpate. I believe those were Hal Bentley's instructions--in the letter." Mr. Quimby towered above Mr. Magee, a shirt-sleeved statue of honest American manhood. He scowled. "Excuse a plain question, young man," he said, "but what are you hiding from?" Mrs. Quimby, in the neighborhood of the stove, paused to hear the reply. Billy Magee laughed. "I'm not hiding," he said. "Didn't Bentley explain? Well, I'll try to, though I'm not sure you'll understand. Sit down, Mr. Quimby. You are not, I take it, the sort of man to follow closely the light and frivolous literature of the day." "What's that?" inquired Mr. Quimby.