She smiled a friendly smile at Magee, and took the chair he offered. One small slipper beat a discreet tattoo on the polished floor of Baldpate’s office. Again she suggested to Billy Magee a house of wealth and warmth and luxury, a house where Arnold Bennett and the post-impressionists are often discussed, a house the head of which becomes purple and apoplectic at the mention of Colonel Roosevelt’s name.
“Last night, Mr. Magee,” she said, “I told you frankly why I had come to Baldpate Inn. You were good enough to say that you would help me if you could. The time has come when you can, I think.”
“Yes?” answered Magee. His heart sank. What now?
“I must confess that I spied this morning,” she went on. “It was rude of me, perhaps. But I think almost anything is excusable under the circumstances, don’t you? I witnessed a scene in the hall above — Mr. Magee, I know who has the two hundred thousand dollars!”
“You know?” cried Magee. His heart gave a great bound. At last! And then — he stopped. “I’m afraid I must ask you not to tell me,” he added sadly.
The girl looked at him in wonder. She was of a type common in Magee’s world — delicate, finely-reared, sensitive. True, in her pride and haughtiness she suggested the snow-capped heights of the eternal hills. But at sight of those feminine heights Billy Magee had always been one to seize his alpenstock in a more determined grip, and climb. Witness his attentions to the supurb Helen Faulkner. He had a moment of faltering. Here was a girl who at least did not doubt him, who ascribed to him the virtues of a gentleman, who was glad to trust in him. Should he transfer his allegiance? No, he could hardly do that now.
“You ask me not to tell you,” repeated the girl slowly.
“That demands an explanation,” replied Billy Magee. “I want you to understand — to be certain that I would delight to help you if I could. But the fact is that before you came I gave my word to secure the package you speak of for — another woman. I can not break my promise to her.”
“I see,” she answered. Her tone was cool.
“I’m very sorry,” Magee went on. “But as a matter of fact, I seem to be of very little service to any one. Just now I would give a great deal to have the information you were about to give me. But since I could not use it helping you, you will readily see that I must not listen. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” replied the girl. “Thank you very much — for telling me. Now I must — go forward — alone.” She smiled unhappily.
“I’m afraid you must,” answered Billy Magee.
On the stairs appeared the slim figure of the other girl. Her great eyes were wistful, her face was pale. She came toward them through the red firelight. Mr. Magee saw what a fool he had been to waver in his allegiance even for a moment. For he loved her, wanted her, surely. The snow-capped heights are inspiring, but far more companionable is the brook that sparkles in the valley.
“It’s rather dull, isn’t it?” asked Miss Norton of the Thornhill girl. By the side of the taller woman she seemed slight, almost childish. “Have you seen the pictures of the admiral, Miss Thornhill? Looking at them is our one diversion.”
“I do not care to see them, thank you,” Myra Thornhill replied, moving toward the stairs. “He is a very dear friend of my father.” She passed up and out of sight.
Miss Norton turned away from the fire, and Mr. Magee rose hastily to follow. He stood close behind her, gazing down at her golden hair shimmering in the dark.
“I’ve just been thinking,” he said lightly, “what an absolutely ridiculous figure I must be in your eyes, buzzing round and round like a bee in a bottle, and getting nowhere at all. Listen — no one has left the inn. While they stay, there’s hope. Am I not to have one more chance — a chance to prove to you how much I care?”
She turned, and even in the dusk he saw that her eyes were wet.
“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m not angry any more. I’m just — at sea. I don’t know what to think — what to do. Why try any longer? I think I’ll go away — and give up.”
“You mustn’t do that,” urged Magee. They came back into the firelight. “Miss Thornhill has just informed me that she knows who has the package!”
“Indeed,” said the girl calmly, but her face had flushed.
“I didn’t let her tell me, of course.”
“Why not?” Oh, how maddening women could be!
“Why not?” Magee’s tone was hurt. “Because I couldn’t use her information in getting the money for you.”
“You are still ‘going to’ get the money for me?”
Maddening certainly, as a rough-edged collar.
“Of—” Magee began, but caught himself. No, he would prate no more of ‘going to’. “I’ll not ask you to believe it,” he said, “until I bring it to you and place it in your hand.”
She turned her face slowly to his and lifted her blue eyes.
“I wonder,” she said. “I wonder.”
The firelight fell on her lips, her hair, her eyes, and Mr. Magee knew that his selfish bachelorhood was at an end. Hitherto, marriage had been to him the picture drawn by the pathetic exiled master. “There are no more pleasant by-paths down which you may wander, but the road lies long and straight and dusty to the grave.” What if it were so? With the hand of a girl like this in his, what if the pleasant by-paths of his solitude did bear hereafter the “No Thoroughfare” sign? Long the road might be, and he would rejoice in its length; dusty perhaps, but her smile through the dust would make it all worth while. He stooped to her.
“Give me, please,” he said, “the benefit of the doubt.” It was a poor speech compared to what was in his heart, but Billy Magee was rapidly learning that most of the pretty speeches went with puppets who could not feel.
Bland and Max came in from a brisk walk on the veranda. The mayor of Reuton, who had been dozing near the desk, stirred.
“Great air up here,” remarked Mr. Max, rubbing his hands before the fire. “Ought to be pumped down into the region of the white lights. It sure would stir things up.”
“It would put out the lights at ten p. m.,” answered Mr. Magee, “and inculcate other wholesome habits of living disastrous to the restaurant impresarios.”
Miss Norton rose and ascended the stairs. Still the protesting Magee was at her heels. At the head of the stair she turned.
“You shall have your final chance,” she said. “The mayor, Max and Bland are alone in the office. I don’t approve of eavesdropping at Baldpate in the summer — it has spoiled a lot of perfectly adorable engagements. But in winter it’s different. Whether you really want to help me or not I’m sure I don’t know, but if you do, the conversation below now might prove of interest.”
“I’m sure it would,” Magee replied.
“Well, I have a scheme. Listen. Baldpate Inn is located in a temperance county. That doesn’t mean that people don’t drink here — it simple means that there’s a lot of mystery and romance connected with the drinking. Sometimes those who follow the god of chance in the card-room late at night grow thirsty. Now it happens that there is a trap-door in the floor of the card-room, up which drinks are frequently passed from the cellar. Isn’t that exciting? A hotel clerk who became human once in my presence told me all about it. If you went into the cellar and hunted about, you might find that door and climb up into the card-room.”