Mr. Magee watched him
disappear, and resolved to follow quickly on his heels. But first he
paused to give his own version of the word under discussion.

"Strange," he remarked, "that none of you gets the picture I do.
Romance--it is here--at your feet in Baldpate Inn. A man climbs the
mountain to be alone with his thoughts, to forget the melodrama of life,
to get away from the swift action of the world, and meditate. He is
alone--for very near an hour. Then a telephone bell tinkles, and a youth
rises out of the dark to prate of a lost Arabella, and haberdashery. A
shot rings out, as the immemorial custom with shots, and in comes a
professor of Comparative Literature, with a perforation in his derby
hat. A professional hermit arrives to teach the amateur the fine points
of the game. A charming maid comes in--too late for breakfast--but in
plenty of time for walks on the balcony in the moonlight. The mayor of a
municipality condescends to stay for dinner. A battle in the snow
ensues. There is a weird talk of--a sum of money. More guests arrive.
Dark hints of a seventh key. Why, bless you, you needn't stir from
Baldpate Inn in search of your romance."

He crossed the floor hastily, and put one foot on the lower step of
Baldpate's grand stairway. He kept it there. For from the shadows of the
landing Professor Bolton emerged, his blasted derby once more on his
head, his overcoat buttoned tight, his ear-muffs in place, his
traveling-bag and green umbrella in tow.

"What, Professor," cried Magee, "you're leaving?"

Now, truly, the end of the drama had come. Mr. Magee felt his heart beat
wildly. What was the end to be? What did this calm departure mean?
Surely the little man descending the stair was not, Daniel-like,
thrusting himself into this lion's den with the precious package in his
possession?

"Yes," the old man was saying slowly. "I am about to leave. The decision
came suddenly. I am sorry to go. Certainly I have enjoyed these chance
meetings."

"See here, Doc," said Mr. Bland, uneasily feeling of his purple tie,
"you're not going back and let them reporters have another fling at
you?"

"I fear I must," replied the old man. "My duty calls. Yes, they will
hound me. I shall hear much of peroxide blondes. I shall be asked again
to name the ten greatest in history,--a difficult, not to say dangerous
task. But I must face the--er--music, as the vulgar expression goes. I
bid you good-by, Mr. Bland. We part friends, I