."

"No I'm not, Cargan," cried the haberdasher. "Look around for yourself.
The inn's overrun with them."

Cargan leaned weakly against a chair.

"Well, what do you know about that," he said. "And they kept telling me
Baldpate Inn was the best place--say, this is one on Andy Rutter. Why
didn't you get it out and beat it?"

"How could I?" Mr. Bland asked. "I haven't got the combination. The safe
was left open for me. That was the agreement with Rutter."

"You might have phoned us not to come," remarked Lou, with an uneasy
glance around.

Mr. Cargan hit the mantelpiece with his huge fist.

"By heaven, no," he cried. "I'll lift it from under their very noses.
I've done it before--I can do it now. I don't care who they are. They
can't touch me. They can't touch Jim Cargan. I ain't afraid."

Mr. Magee, on the landing, whispered into his companion's ear. "I think
I'll go down and greet our guests." He felt her grasp his arm suddenly,
as though in fear, but he shook off her hand and debonairly descended to
the group below.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said suavely. "Welcome to Baldpate! Please
don't attempt to explain--we're fed up on explanations now. You have the
fifth key, of course. Welcome to our small but growing circle."

The big man advanced threateningly. Mr. Magee saw that his face was very
red, his neck very thick, but his mouth a cute little cupid's bow that
might well have adorned a dainty baby in the park.

"Who are you?" bellowed the mayor of Reuton in a tone meant to be
cowering.

"I forget," replied Mr. Magee easily. "Bland, who am I to-day? The
cast-off lover of Arabella, the fleeing artist, or the thief of
portraits from a New York millionaire's home? Really, it doesn't matter.
We shift our stories from time to time. As the first of the Baldpate
hermits, however, it is my duty to welcome you, which I hereby do."

The mayor pointed dramatically to the stair.

"I give you fifteen minutes," he roared, "to pack up and get out. I
don't want you here. Understand?"

To Cargan's side came the slinking figure of Lou Max. His face was the
withered yellow of an old lemon; his garb suggested shop-windows on
dirty side streets; unpleasant eyes shifted behind a pair of gold-rimmed
glasses. His attitude was that of the dog who crouches by its master.

"Clear out," he snarled.

"By no means," replied Magee, looking the mayor squarely in the eye. "I
was here first. I'm here to stay. Put me out, will yo