THE EXQUISITE MR. HAYDEN
It was past three o'clock. The early twilight crept up the mountain, and
the shadows began to lengthen in the great bare office of Baldpate Inn.
In the red flicker of firelight Mr. Magee sat and pondered; the interval
since luncheon had passed lazily; he was no nearer to guessing which of
Baldpate Inn's winter guests hugged close the precious package.
Exasperated, angry, he waited for he knew not what, restless all the
while to act, but having not the glimmer of an inspiration as to what
his course ought to be.
He heard the rustle of skirts on the stair landing, and looked up. Down
the broad stairway, so well designed to serve as a show-window for the
sartorial triumphs of Baldpate's gay summer people, came the tall
handsome girl who had the night before set all his plans awry. In the
swift-moving atmosphere of the inn she had hitherto been to Mr. Magee
but a puppet of the shadows, a figure more fictitious than real. Now for
the first time he looked upon her as a flesh-and-blood girl, noted the
red in her olive cheeks, the fire in her dark eyes, and realized that
her interest in that package of money might be something more than
another queer quirk in the tangle of events.
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 simply 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."
"A bully idea," agreed Mr. Magee. "I'll hurry down there this minute.
I'm more grateful than you can guess for this chance. And this time--but
you'll see."
He found the back stairs, and descended. In the kitchen the hermit got
in his path.
"Mr. Magee," he pleaded, "I consider that, in a way, I work for you
here. I've got something important to tell you. Just a minute--"
"Sorry," answered Magee, "but I can't possibly stop now. In an hour I'll
talk to you. Show me the cellar door, and don't mention where I've gone,
there's a good fellow."
Mr. Peters protested that his need of talk was urgent, but to no avail.
Magee hurried to the cellar, and with the aid of a box of matches found
a ladder leading to a door cut in the floor above. He climbed through
dust and cobwebs, unfastened the catch, and pushed cautiously upward. In
another minute he was standing in the chill little card-room. Softly he
opened the card-room door about half an inch, and put his ear to it.
The three men were grouped very close at hand, and he heard Mr. Bland
speaking in low tones:
"I'm talking to you boys as a friend. The show is over. There ain't no
use hanging round for the concert--there won't be none. Go home and get
some clean collars and a square meal."
"If you think I'm going to be shook off by any fairy story like that,"
said the mayor of Reuton "you're a child with all a child's touching
faith."
"All right," replied Mr. Bland, "I thought I'd pass you the tip, that's
all. It ain't nothing to me what you do. But it's all over, and you've
lost out. I'm sorry you have--but I take Hayden's orders."
"Damn Hayden!" snarled the mayor. "It was his idea to make a three-act
play out of this thing. He's responsible for this silly trip to
Baldpate. This audience we've been acting for--he let us in for them."
"I know," said Bland. "But you can't deny that Baldpate Inn looked like
the ideal spot at first. Secluded, off the beaten path, you know, and
all that."
"Yes," sneered the mayor, "as secluded as a Sunday-school the Sunday
before Christmas."
"Well, who could have guessed it?" went on Mr. Bland. "As I say, I don't
care what you do. I just passed you the tip. I've got that nice little
package of the long green--I've got it where you'll never find it. Yes,
sir, it's returned to the loving hands of little Joe Bland, that brought
it here first. It ain't going to roam no more. So what's the use of your
sticking around?"
"How did you get hold of it?" inquired Mr. Lou Max.
"I had my eye on this little professor person," explained Mr. Bland.
"This morning when Magee went up the mountain I trailed the high-brow to
Magee's room. When I busted in, unannounced by the butler, he was making
his getaway. I don't like to talk about what followed. He's an old man,
and I sure didn't mean to break his glasses, nor scratch his dome of
thought. There's ideas in that dome go back to the time of Anthony J.
Chaucer. But--he's always talking about that literature chair of
his--why couldn't he stay at home and sit in it? Anyhow, I got the
bundle all right, all right. I wonder what the little fossil wants with
it."
"The Doc's glasses _was_ broke," said Max, evidently to the mayor of
Reuton.
"Um-m," came Cargan's voice. "Bland, how much do you make working for
this nice kind gentleman, Mr. Hayden?"
"Oh, about two thousand a year, with pickings," replied Bland.
"Yes?" went on Mr. Cargan. "I ain't no Charles Dana Gibson with words.
My talk's a little rough and sketchy, I guess. But here's the outline,
plain as I can make it. Two thousand a year from Hayden. Twenty thousand
in two seconds if you hand that package to me."
"No," objected Bland. "I've been honest--after a fashion. I can't quite
stand for that. I'm working for Hayden."
"Don't be a fool," sneered Max.
"Of course," said the mayor, "I appreciate your scruples, having had a
few in my day myself, though you'd never think so to read the _Star_.
But look at it sensible. The money belongs to me. If you was to hand it
over you'd be just doing plain justice. What right has Hayden on his
side? I did what was agreed--do I get my pay? No. Who are you to defeat
the ends of justice this way? That's how you ought to look at it. You
give me what's my due--and you put twenty thousand in your pocket by an
honest act. Hayden comes. He asks for the bundle. You point to the
dynamited safe. You did your best."
"No," said Bland, but his tone was less firm. "I can't go back on
Hayden. No--it wouldn't--"
"Twenty thousand," repeated Cargan. "Ten years' salary the way you're
going ahead at present. A lot of money for a young man. If I was you I
wouldn't hesitate a minute. Think. What's Hayden ever done for you?
He'll throw you down some day, the way he's thrown me."
"I--I--don't know--" wavered Bland. Mr. Magee, in the card-room, knew
that Hayden's emissary was tottering on the brink.
"You could set up in business," whined Mr. Max. "Why, if I'd had that
much money at your age, I'd be a millionaire to-day."
"You get the package," suggested the mayor, "take twenty thousand out,
and slip the rest to me. No questions asked. I guess there ain't nobody
mixed up in this affair will go up on the housetops and shout about it
when we get back to Reuton."
"Well,--" began Bland. He was lost. Suddenly the quiet of Baldpate
Mountain was assailed by a loud pounding at the inn door, and a voice
crying, "Bland. Let me in."
"There's Hayden now," cried Mr. Bland.
"It ain't too late," came the mayor's voice, "You can do it yet. It
ain't too late."
"Do what?" cried Bland in a firm tone. "You can't bribe me, Cargan." He
raised his voice. "Go round to the east door, Mr. Hayden." Then he
added, to Cargan: "That's my answer. I'm going to let him in."
"Let him in," bellowed the mayor. "Let the hound in. I guess I've got
something to say to Mr. Hayden."
There came to Magee's ears the sound of opening doors, and of returning
footsteps.
"How do you do, Cargan," said a voice new to Baldpate.
"Cut the society howdydoes," replied the mayor hotly. "There's a little
score to be settled between me and you, Hayden. I ain't quite wise to
your orchid-in-the-buttonhole ways. I don't quite follow them. I ain't
been bred in the club you hang around--they blackballed me when I tried
to get in. You know that. I'm a rough rude man. I don't understand your
system. When I give my word, I keep it. Has that gone out of style up on
the avenue, where you live?"
"There are conditions--" began Hayden.
"The hell there are!" roared Cargan. "A man's word's his word, and he
keeps it to me, or I know the reason why. You can't come down to the
City Hall with any new deal like this. I was to have two hundred
thousand. Why didn't I get it?"
"Because," replied Hayden smoothly, "the--er--little favor you were to
grant me in return is to be made useless by the courts."
"Can I help that?" the mayor demanded. "Was there anything about that in
the agreement? I did my work. I want my pay. I'll have it, _Mister_
Hayden."
Hayden's voice was cool and even as he spoke to Bland.
"Got the money, Joe?"
"Yes," Bland answered.
"Where?"
"Well--we'd better wait, hadn't we?" Bland's, voice was shaky.
"No. We'll take it and get out," answered Hayden.
"I want to see you do it," cried Cargan. "If you think I've come up here
on a pleasure trip, I got a chart and a pointer all ready for your next
lesson. And let me put you wise--this nobby little idea of yours about
Baldpate Inn is the worst ever. The place is as full of people as if the
regular summer rates was being charged."
"The devil it is!" cried Hayden. His voice betrayed a startled
annoyance.
"It hasn't worried me none," went on the mayor. "They can't touch me. I
own the prosecutor, and you know it. But it ain't going to do you any
good on the avenue if you're seen here with me. Is it, Mr. Hayden?"
"The more reason," replied Hayden, "for getting the money and leaving at
once. I'm not afraid of you, Cargan. I'm armed."
"I ain't," sneered the mayor. "But no exquisite from your set with his
little air-gun ever scared me. You try to get away from here with that
bundle and you'll find yourself all tangled up in the worst scrap that
ever happened."
"Where's the money, Joe?" asked Hayden.
"You won't wait--" Bland begged.
"Wait to get my own money--I guess not. Show me where it is."
"Remember," put in Cargan, "that money's mine. And don't have any pipe
dreams about the law--the law ain't called into things of this sort as a
rule. I guess you'd be the last to call it. You'll never get away from
here with my money."
Mr. Magee opened the card-room door farther, and saw the figure of the
stranger Hayden confronting the mayor. Mr. Cargan's title of exquisite
best described him. The newcomer was tall, fair, fastidious in dress and
manner. A revolver gleamed in his hand.
"Joe," he said firmly, "take me to that money at once."
"It's out here," replied Bland. He and Hayden disappeared through the
dining-room door into the darkness. Cargan and Max followed close
behind.
Hot with excitement, Mr. Magee slipped from his place of concealment. A
battle fit for the gods was in the air. He must be in the midst of
it--perhaps again in a three-cornered fight it would be the third party
that would emerge victorious.
In the darkness of the dining-room he bumped into a limp clinging
figure. It proved to be the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain.
"I got to talk to you, Mr. Magee," he whispered in a frightened tremolo.
"I got to have a word with you this minute."
"Not now," cried Magee, pushing him aside. "Later."
The hermit wildly seized his arm.
"No, now," he said. "There's strange goings-on, here, Mr. Magee. I got
something to tell you--about a package of money I found in the kitchen."
Mr. Magee stood very still. Beside him in the darkness he heard the
hermit's excited breathing.