"Don't shoot," cried Magee.
"No, please don't," urged the man in the door way. A beard, a pair of round owlish spectacles, and two ridiculous ear-muffs, left only a sugges tion of face here and there. He closed the door and stepped into the room. "I have every right here, I assure you, even though my arrival is somewhat unconventional. See—I have the key." He held up a large brass key that was the coun terpart of the one Hal Bentley had bestowed upon Mr. Magee in that club on far-off Forty- fourth Street.
"Keys to burn," muttered Mr. Bland sourly.
"I bear no ill will with regard to the shooting," went on the newcomer. He took off his derby hat and ruefully regarded a hole through the crown. His bald head seemed singularly frank and naked above a face of so many disguises. "It is only nat ural that men alone on a mountain should defend themselves from invaders at two in the morning My escape was narrow, but there is no ill will."
He blinked about him, his breath a white cloud in the cold room.
"Life, young gentlemen," he remarked, setting
