haddeus
Bolton, holder of the Crandall Chair of Comparative Literature, in this
network of odd alarms? Why was he at Baldpate? And why was he so little
moved by the rapid changes in the make-up of the inn colony--changes
that left Mr. Magee gasping? He took them as calmly as he would take his
grapefruit at the breakfast-table. Only that morning Mr. Magee, by way
of experiment, had fastened upon him the suspicion of murder, and the
old man had not flickered an eyelash. Not the least strange of all the
strange figures that floated about Baldpate, Mr. Magee reflected, was
this man who fiddled now with Chaucer while, metaphorically, Rome
burned. He could not make it out.

Mr. Max inserted a loud yawn into the professor's discourse.

"Once I played chess with a German," he said, "and another time I went
to a lecture on purifying politics, but I never struck anything so
monotonous as this job I got now."

"So sorry," replied Magee, "that our company bores you."

"No offense," remarked the yellow-faced one. "I was just thinking as I
set here how it all comes of people being suspicious of one another. Now
I've always held that the world would be a better place if there wasn't
no suspicion in it. Nine times out of ten the suspicion ain't got a leg
to stand on--if suspicion can be said to have a leg."

Evidently Mr. Max desired the floor; graciously Professor Bolton
conceded it to him.

"Speaking of suspicion," continued the drab little man on the threshold,
turning his cigar thoughtfully between his thin lips, "reminds me of a
case told me by Pueblo Sam, a few years ago. In some ways it's real
funny, and in others it's sad as hell. Pueblo Sam was called in them
terms because he'd never been west of Sixth Avenue. He was a swell
refined gentleman who lived by his wits, and he had considerable."

"A confidence man," suggested Magee.

"Something along that order," admitted Mr. Max, "but a good sport among
his friends, you understand. Well, this case of suspicion Sam tells me
about happened something like this. One scorching hot day in summer Sam
gets aboard the Coney boat, his idea being to put all business cares
away for an hour or two, and just float calm and peaceful down the bay,
and cool off. So he grabs out a camp chair and hustles through the crowd
up to the top deck, beside the pilot's hangout, and sits down to get
acquainted with the breeze, if such there was.

"Well, he'd been sitting there about ten minutes, Sam