"If you think," answered Mr. Magee, proffering a cigar, "that I am in on
this little game of 'Who's Who', then you are vastly mistaken. As a
matter of fact, I am as much in the dark as you are."

The professor smiled.

"Indeed," he said in a tone that showed his unbelief. "Indeed."

He was deep in a discussion of the meters of the poet Chaucer when there
came a knock at the door, and Mr. Lou Max's unpleasant head was thrust
inside.

"I been assigned," he said, "to sit up here in the hall and keep an eye
out for the ghost Bland heard tramping about. And being of a sociable
nature, I'd like to sit in your doorway, if you don't mind."

"By all means," replied Magee. "Here's a chair. Do you smoke?"

"Thanks." Mr. Max placed the chair sidewise in the doorway of number
seven, and sat down. From his place he commanded a view of Mr. Magee's
apartments and of the head of the stairs. With his yellow teeth he
viciously bit the end from the cigar. "Don't let me interrupt the
conversation, gentlemen," he pleaded.

"We were speaking," said the professor calmly, "of the versification of
Chaucer. Mr. Magee--"

He continued his discussion in an even voice, Mr. Magee leaned back in
his chair and smiled in a pleased way at the settings of the stage: Mr.
Max in a cloud of smoke on guard at his door; the mayor and Mr. Bland
keeping vigil by a telephone switchboard in the office below, watching
for the flash of light that should tell them some one in the outside
world wanted to speak to Baldpate Inn; a mysterious figure who flitted
about in the dark; a beautiful girl who was going to ask Mr. Magee to do
her a service, blindly trusting her.

The professor droned on monotonously. Once Mr. Magee interrupted to
engage Lou Max in spirited conversation. For, through the squares of
light outside the windows, he had seen the girl of the station pass
hurriedly down the balcony, the snowflakes falling white on her yellow
hair.

CHAPTER VIII

MR. MAX TELLS A TALE OF SUSPICION

An hour passed. Mr. Max admitted when pressed that a good cigar soothed
the soul, and accepted another from Magee's stock. The professor
continued to talk. Obviously it was his favorite diversion. He seemed to
be quoting from addresses; Mr. Magee pictured him on a Chautauqua
platform, the white water pitcher by his side.

As he talked, Mr. Magee studied that portion of his delicate scholarly
face that the beard left exposed to the world. What part had T