"Old Henry Thornhill's daughter," reflected the mayor. "Well, seems I've sort of lost the habit of being surprised now. I tell you, Lou, we're breaking into the orchid division up here." While Mr. Magee shaved--in ice-cold water, another black mark against the Hermit of Baldpate--he turned over in his mind the events of the night before. The vigil in the office, the pleading of the fair girl on the balcony, the battle by the steps, the sudden appearance of Miss Thornhill, the figure in his room, the conversation by the annex door--like a moving picture film the story of that weird night unrolled itself. The film was not yet at an end. He had given himself the night to think. Soon he would stand before the girl of the station; soon he must answer her questions. What was he to do with the fortune that lay beneath the feet of the mayor of Reuton at this minute? He hardly knew. He was ready to descend at last, and came into the parlor of his suite with greatcoat and hat. In reply to Mr. Cargan's unasked question, he said: "I'm going up the mountain presently to reason with our striking cook." "You ain't going to leave this inn, Magee," said the mayor. "Not even to bring back a cook. Come, Mr. Cargan, be reasonable. You may go with me, if you suspect my motives." They went out into the hall, and Mr. Magee passed down the corridor to the farther end, where he rapped on the door of Miss Thornhill's room. She appeared almost immediately, buried beneath furs and wraps. "You must be nearly frozen," remarked Mr. Magee pityingly. "You and your maid come down to the office. I want you to meet the other guests." "I'll come," she replied. "Mr. Magee, I've a confession to make. I invented the maid. It seemed so horribly unconventional and shocking--I couldn't admit that I was alone. That was why I wouldn't let you build a fire for me." "Don't worry," smiled Magee. "You'll find we have all the conveniences up here. I'll present you to a chaperon shortly--a Mrs. Norton, who is here with her daughter. Allow me to introduce Mr. Cargan and Mr. Max." The girl bowed with a rather startled air, and Mr. Cargan mumbled something that had "pleasure" in it. In the office they found Professor Bolton and Mr. Bland sitting gloomily before the fireplace. "Got the news, Magee?" asked the haberdasher. "Peters has done a disappearing act." It was evident to Magee that everybody looked upon Peters as his creature, and laid the hermit's sins at his door. He laughed. "I'm going to head a search party shortly," he said. "Don't I detect the odor of coffee in the distance?" "Mrs. Norton," remarked Professor Bolton dolefully, "has kindly consented to do what she can." The girl of the station came through the dining-room door. It was evident she had no share in the general gloom that the hermit's absence cast over Baldpate. Her eyes were bright with the glories of morning on a mountain; in their depths there was no room for petty annoyances.