they came to Magee's room without incident. In side, Mr. Magee drew up an easy chair before the fire, and offered his guest a cigar.
"You must be cold," he said. "Sit here. A bad night, stranger as they remark in stories."
"You've said it," replied the young man, accept ing the cigar. "Thanks." He walked to the door leading into the hall and opened it about a foot. "I'm afraid," he explained jocosely, "we'll get to talking, and miss the breakfast bell." He dropped into the chair, and lighted his cigar at a candle end. "Say, you never can tell, can you? Climb ing up old Baldpate I thought to myself, that hotel certainly makes the Sahara Desert look like a cozy corner. And here you are, as snug and comfort able and at home as if you were in a Harlem flat. You never can tell. And what now? The story of my life?"
"You might relate," Mr. Magee told him, "that portion of it that has led you trespassing on a gen tleman seeking seclusion at Baldpate Inn."
The stranger looked at Mr. Magee. He had an eye that not only looked, but weighed, estimated, and classified. Mr. Magee met it smilingly.
