was enthralled by the possibilities of a walk up
Baldpate. The three went out through the front door, and found under the
snow a hint of the path that led to the shack of the post-card merchant.

"Will you go ahead?" asked Magee of Max.

"Sorry," grinned Max, "but I guess I'll bring up the rear."

"Suspicion," said Mr. Magee, shaking his head, "has caused a lot of
trouble in the world. Remember the cruelty practised on Pueblo Sam."

"I do," replied Mr. Max, "and it nearly breaks my heart. But there's a
little matter I forgot to mention last night. Suspicion is all right in
its place."

"Where's that?" asked Mr. Magee.

Mr. Max tapped his narrow chest. "Here," he said. So the three began the
climb, Mr. Magee and the girl ahead, Mr. Max leering at their heels.

The snow still fell, and the picture of the world was painted in grays
and whites. At some points along the way to the hermit's abode it had
drifted deep; at others the foot-path was swept almost bare by the wind.
For a time Mr. Max kept so close that the conversation of the two in the
lead was necessarily of the commonplaces of the wind and sky and
mountain.

Covertly Mr. Magee glanced at the girl striding along by his side. The
red flamed in her cheeks; her long lashes were flecked with the white of
the snow; her face was such a one as middle-aged men dream of while
their fat wives read the evening paper's beauty hints at their side. Far
beyond the ordinary woman was she desirable and pleasing. Mr. Magee told
himself he had been a fool. For he who had fought so valiantly for her
heart's desire at the foot of the steps had faltered when the time came
to hand her the prize. Why? What place had caution in the wild scheme of
the night before? None, surely. And yet he, dolt, idiot, coward, had in
the moment of triumph turned cautious. Full confession, he decided, was
the only way out.

Mr. Max was panting along quite ten feet behind. Over her shoulder the
girl noted this; she turned her questioning eyes on Magee; he felt that
his moment had come.

"I don't know how to begin," muttered the novelist whose puppets'
speeches had always been so apt. "Last night you sent me on a sort
of--quest for the golden fleece. I didn't know who had been fleeced, or
what the idea was. But I fared forth, as they say. I got it for you--"

The eyes of the girl glowed happily. She was beaming.

"I'm so glad," she said. "But why--why didn't you give it to me last
night? It wou