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In "Seven Keys to Baldpate," Earl Derr Biggers weaves a captivating mystery that intertwines humor, intrigue, and a clever plot. Set in a secluded hotel, the narrative follows the protagonist, a playwright seeking inspiration, who becomes ensnared in a series of comedic yet dangerous events. The book features sharp dialogue and vivid characterizations, skillfully blending elements of a classic whodunit with wit reminiscent of the early 20th-century American literary scene. Biggers excels at creating a setting that feels simultaneously intimate and rife with suspense, making it a cornerstone of the mystery genre in its era. Earl Derr Biggers, an American author and playwright, gained prominence during the early 1900s, with a keen interest in storytelling that bridged cultures and genres. His experiences in the theater and keen observational skills informed his writing, resulting in narratives that not only entertain but also probe into human nature and social mores. Biggers is best known for his Charlie Chan novels, but "Seven Keys to Baldpate" exemplifies his ability to craft engaging plots outside that series, reflecting his versatility as a writer. I highly recommend "Seven Keys to Baldpate" to readers who appreciate clever mysteries laced with humor. This novel not only serves the connoisseur of classic mystery literature but also appeals to modern readers seeking an engaging narrative imbued with wit and charm. Biggers' masterful storytelling invites you into a labyrinth of deception and laughter that remains timeless.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Seven Keys to Baldpate
Table of Contents
Introduction
When comfort and certainty are purchased at the price of vigilance, the quietest rooms can become stages for risk, ambition, and deception.
Seven Keys to Baldpate, by Earl Derr Biggers, belongs to the early twentieth-century tradition of popular mystery and suspense fiction, written in a brisk, accessible style for a wide audience. Set largely in an isolated country house that promises solitude yet invites intrusion, the novel uses a contained setting to intensify doubt and accelerate plot. Biggers, known for crafting page-turning narratives, draws on familiar ingredients of the period’s crime writing while giving them a theatrical liveliness. The result is a compact, propulsive story that balances puzzle, comedy, and tension without becoming ponderous.
The premise begins with a writer seeking seclusion in order to complete work under a deadline, choosing a remote estate reputed to be locked tight against interruptions. That plan immediately meets its opposite: the house becomes unexpectedly populated, and the protagonist is forced to navigate a succession of arrivals, explanations, and hidden motives. What follows is less a conventional procedural than a pressure-cooker narrative in which access, identity, and intent are constantly renegotiated. The reader’s pleasure comes from watching order attempt to assert itself in a space that grows increasingly unstable, where each new development revises what seemed settled only moments before.
Biggers’s narrative voice favors clarity and momentum, keeping scenes readable and dialogue-driven while reserving enough ambiguity to sustain curiosity. The tone moves deftly between lightness and unease, using wit and social observation to keep the atmosphere buoyant even as stakes sharpen. Rather than luxuriating in description, the novel tends to push forward through actions and conversations, allowing misunderstandings, half-truths, and sudden reversals to do the work of suspense. The reading experience is therefore immediate and theatrical, as if the house were a set and each entrance or disclosure recalibrated the audience’s expectations.
The central themes emerge from this collision of privacy and intrusion. The novel considers how quickly a desire for isolation can become a liability, and how people perform different versions of themselves when circumstances demand it. It also probes the fragility of trust in enclosed environments, where proximity accelerates judgment and rumor fills gaps in knowledge. Beneath the entertainment lies a meditation on authorship and control: the wish to shape outcomes, to impose a narrative on events, and the discomfort of discovering that others may be writing their own versions at the same time. The house functions as both shelter and trap, testing composure and perception.
Seven Keys to Baldpate still matters because its pleasures are recognizably modern: a high-concept setup, a constrained location, and a storyline that thrives on misdirection without requiring specialized knowledge. Contemporary readers attuned to locked-room atmospheres, ensemble casts, and twists that depend on timing will find an early and influential example of those satisfactions. Its attention to the social mechanics of suspicion feels current in an age when information arrives in fragments and confidence often outpaces evidence. The novel also invites reflection on how environments shape behavior, reminding readers that architecture and circumstance can be active forces in moral and psychological drama.
Approached today, the book can be read both as a lively entertainment and as a window into the pacing and sensibilities of its era, when popular fiction often combined humor, melodrama, and mystery in a single streamlined package. Without requiring spoilers to appreciate, the opening situation establishes a sturdy platform for escalating complications and an evolving sense of what is at stake. Biggers’s skill lies in sustaining engagement through movement and surprise, encouraging readers to question first impressions while enjoying the brisk rhythm of the scenes. The introduction to this world is therefore an invitation to observe how quickly a promise of quiet can curdle into a contest for truth.
Synopsis
Earl Derr Biggers’s Seven Keys to Baldpate is a mystery-comedy set around a remote mountain inn, Baldpate, which is supposed to be closed for the winter. The story follows George Washington Magee, a brisk, self-confident playwright and novelist who accepts an unusual wager tied to his ability to produce a complete book under difficult conditions. To do so, he travels to Baldpate seeking isolation, believing the empty hotel will provide uninterrupted time and quiet. Instead, the premises and its locked rooms suggest a place designed to keep secrets as much as guests.
paragraphs in a list of strings. Return exactly 7 paragraph strings in order. The synopsis must: - Deliver a concise, neutral summary that follows the work’s narrative or argumentative flow. - Highlight pivotal developments (fiction) or core findings (non-fiction) without spoiling major twists or conclusions. - Convey the central ideas, conflicts, or questions that define the book. - Close with the work’s broader significance or enduring resonance while remaining spoiler-safe. Accuracy and safety: - Do not invent facts or speculate; omit anything uncertain. - Use only verifiable details—author, title, publication context. - Avoid direct quotations and keep all spoilers light. - Maintain a formal, continuous tone with no headings or bullet lists in the prose. Output instructions: - Respond with valid JSON only. - Provide a top-level property `paragraphs` whose value is a list of strings - Return exactly 7 paragraph strings in order.
As Magee settles in, his plan for solitary work quickly collapses. The supposedly deserted hotel begins receiving unexpected visitors, and the building’s “keys” become an emblem of access, control, and concealment. What begins as a comic inconvenience turns into a tense social puzzle: strangers arrive with urgent reasons to be inside, yet each acts as though others should not be there. Magee, intent on finishing his manuscript and winning his bet, is forced to pay close attention to what is being said, what is being withheld, and which doors are being opened.
The cast of arrivals brings shifting alliances and competing explanations, making Baldpate feel less like a retreat and more like a crossroads for hidden business. Magee’s observational skills as a writer become practical tools as he tries to separate performance from truth. The hotel’s isolation magnifies every sound, footstep, and interruption, and even ordinary hospitality becomes charged with suspicion. Amid the confusion, the atmosphere alternates between farce and danger, emphasizing how quickly a controlled setting can be overtaken by events that no single person fully understands.
As the night progresses, the motives of the visitors begin to matter more than their identities. Conversations and confrontations suggest that something valuable or compromising is at stake, and that the hotel has been chosen as a meeting place precisely because it is out of the way. Magee finds that his bet is no longer merely about producing pages; it becomes a test of nerve and judgment under pressure. He tries to keep his footing as the situation pulls him into disputes that cannot be resolved by wit alone.
The plot tightens through misdirection, sudden turns, and the repeated problem of who controls entry to information and space. The physical keys to Baldpate’s rooms mirror figurative keys to the truth, and the story plays on the tension between what the characters claim and what their actions reveal. Magee’s role shifts from detached creator to participant, and he must decide how far to involve himself in matters that could put him at risk. The inn, once a backdrop for writing, becomes a mechanism that shapes every encounter.
Without disclosing the story’s major revelations, the narrative builds toward a reckoning in which the competing stories told at Baldpate can no longer coexist. Biggers sustains suspense by letting seemingly minor details—movements in corridors, the timing of arrivals, the meaning of a locked door—gain weight as the night wears on. The book’s pleasures lie in its controlled escalation from comic premise to layered mystery, and in the way Magee’s authorial confidence is tested by a reality that resists easy plotting or tidy assumptions.
Historical Context
Earl Derr Biggers published Seven Keys to Baldpate in 1913, during the Progressive Era, when debates over corporate power, political reform, and public morality shaped American life. The novel is set chiefly in a rural New England resort hotel during the off-season, a recognizable institution from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when rail travel and leisure culture supported mountain and lakeside retreats. Biggers wrote for a mass market of magazine and book readers, and his work reflects the period’s appetite for brisk, stage-ready mystery plots and social satire.
The story’s New England setting draws on the region’s established identity in American culture as a place of small towns, old families, and seasonal tourism. By the 1910s, resort hotels in New Hampshire and neighboring states served urban visitors from Boston and New York, and many properties closed or greatly reduced operations in winter, creating isolated environments suited to suspense fiction. Such hotels also relied on modern conveniences—telephones, improved lighting, and regular rail connections—while still being physically separated from major cities. Biggers uses this blend of modernity and remoteness as a credible backdrop for intrigue.
Seven Keys to Baldpate appeared when American popular entertainment was rapidly expanding. Broadway and touring companies circulated new plays nationwide, and publishers increasingly sought fiction with strong dialogue and theatrical pacing. Biggers worked as a journalist and later as a screenwriter; his prose shows the influence of reportage and stagecraft common in commercial fiction of the time. The novel quickly became the basis for a successful stage adaptation (also titled Seven Keys to Baldpate), demonstrating how early-twentieth-century American culture moved stories across print and theater to reach wider audiences.
The novel’s atmosphere also reflects the era’s fascination with puzzles, wagers, and competitive modern life. “Problem” plots and locked-room situations had become familiar to readers through British and American detective fiction, and U.S. magazines promoted similar games of logic. At the same time, Americans were confronting new forms of risk and publicity tied to finance, urban growth, and mass media. Biggers places characters in a confined setting where information, secrecy, and timing matter, mirroring contemporary concerns about how quickly narratives—and reputations—could change in the public eye.
Political and economic reform movements of the period inform the book’s background assumptions. The Progressive Era saw increased scrutiny of corruption and lobbying, municipal reform campaigns, and headline attention to the influence of wealthy interests. Nationally, the 1912 election—featuring Woodrow Wilson, Theodore Roosevelt, and William Howard Taft—kept questions of regulation and “good government” prominent. Against this climate, Biggers could rely on readers recognizing political bargaining, private deals, and the social power of money as plausible motives without needing extensive explanation.
The early 1910s also marked a transitional moment in communications and mobility, which mystery fiction often incorporated. Telephones were common in hotels and urban homes, and telegraph services still mattered for rapid long-distance messages. Railroads remained central to travel, enabling city people to reach rural resorts quickly, while automobiles were becoming more visible but not yet universal. Such conditions made it credible for characters to converge on a remote location while still maintaining contact with outside authorities or associates, supporting a plot driven by arrivals, departures, and controlled information.
Social norms in 1913, including expectations of respectability, class deference, and gender roles, shaped how readers interpreted character behavior. Middle-class ideals emphasized self-control and reputation, and hotels functioned as semi-public spaces where strangers observed one another. Popular fiction frequently used these environments to stage clashes between manners and self-interest, and to expose hypocrisy without overtly challenging prevailing morals. Biggers’s dialogue-driven scenes depend on the period’s codes of politeness and social status, which intensify suspicion and misunderstanding in a crowded, unfamiliar household.
Within this historical context, Seven Keys to Baldpate reflects a pre–World War I American confidence in cleverness, mobility, and modern institutions, while also critiquing the ease with which money and influence can distort conduct. The resort hotel setting allows Biggers to compress contemporary anxieties about secrecy, political dealing, and public image into a contained social experiment. Its rapid pacing and stage-friendly construction align with the era’s commercial entertainment networks, and its satiric edge fits Progressive-era skepticism toward private power. The novel thus uses popular mystery conventions to comment on its moment.
Seven Keys to Baldpate
Chapter I. "Weep No More, My Lady"
A young woman was crying bitterly in the waiting-room of the railway station at Upper Asquewan Falls, New York.
A beautiful young woman? That is exactly what Billy Magee wanted to know as, closing the waiting-room door behind him, he stood staring just inside. Were the features against which that frail bit of cambric was agonizingly pressed of a pleasing contour? The girl's neatly tailored corduroy suit and her flippant but charming millinery augured well. Should he step gallantly forward and inquire in sympathetic tones as to the cause of her woe? Should he carry chivalry even to the lengths of Upper Asquewan Falls?
No, Mr. Magee decided he would not. The train that had just roared away into the dusk had not brought him from the region of skyscrapers and derby hats for deeds of knight errantry up state. Anyhow, the girl's tears were none of his business. A railway station was a natural place for grief—a field of many partings, upon whose floor fell often in torrents the tears of those left behind. A friend, mayhap a lover, had been whisked off into the night by the relentless five thirty-four local. Why not a lover? Surely about such a dainty trim figure as this courtiers hovered as moths about a flame. Upon a tender intimate sorrow it was not the place of an unknown Magee to intrude. He put his hand gently upon the latch of the door.
And yet—dim and heartless and cold was the interior of that waiting-room. No place, surely, for a gentleman to leave a lady sorrowful, particularly when the lady was so alluring. Oh, beyond question, she was most alluring. Mr. Magee stepped softly to the ticket window and made low-voiced inquiry of the man inside.
"What's she crying about?" he asked.
A thin sallow face, on the forehead of which a mop of ginger-colored hair lay listlessly, was pressed against the bars.
"Thanks," said the ticket agent. "I get asked the same old questions so often, one like yours sort of breaks the monotony. Sorry I can't help you. She's a woman, and the Lord only knows why women cry. And sometimes I reckon even He must be a little puzzled. Now, my wife—"
"I think I'll ask her," confided Mr. Magee in a hoarse whisper.
"Oh, I wouldn't," advised the man behind the bars. "It's best to let 'em alone. They stop quicker if they ain't noticed."
"But she's in trouble," argued Billy Magee.
"And so'll you be, most likely," responded the cynic, "if you interfere. No, siree! Take my advice. Shoot old Asquewan's rapids in a barrel if you want to, but keep away from crying women."
The heedless Billy Magee, however, was already moving across the unscrubbed floor with chivalrous intention.
The girl's trim shoulders no longer heaved so unhappily. Mr. Magee, approaching, thought himself again in the college yard at dusk, with the great elms sighing overhead, and the fresh young voices of the glee club ringing out from the steps of a century-old building. What were the words they sang so many times?
He regretted that he could not make use of them. They had always seemed to him so sad and beautiful. But troubadours, he knew, went out of fashion long before railway stations came in. So his remark to the young woman was not at all melodious:
"Can I do anything?"
A portion of the handkerchief was removed, and an eye which, Mr. Magee noted, was of an admirable blue, peeped out at him. To the gaze of even a solitary eye, Mr. Magee's aspect was decidedly pleasing. Young Williams, who posed at the club as a wit, had once said that Billy Magee came as near to being a magazine artist's idea of the proper hero of a story as any man could, and at the same time retain the respect and affection of his fellows. Mr. Magee thought he read approval in the lone eye of blue. When the lady spoke, however, he hastily revised his opinion.
"Yes," she said, "you can do something. You can go away—far, far away."
Mr. Magee stiffened. Thus chivalry fared in Upper Asquewan Falls in the year 1911.
"I beg your pardon," he remarked. "You seemed to be in trouble, and I thought I might possibly be of some assistance."
The girl removed the entire handkerchief. The other eye proved to be the same admirable blue—a blue half-way between the shade of her corduroy suit and that of the jacky's costume in the "See the World—Join the Navy[1]" poster that served as background to her woe.
"I don't mean to be rude," she explained more gently, "but—I'm crying, you see, and a girl simply can't look attractive when she cries."
"If I had only been regularly introduced to you, and all that," responded Mr. Magee, "I could make a very flattering reply." And a true one, he added to himself. For even in the faint flickering light of the station he found ample reason for rejoicing that the bit of cambric was no longer agonizingly pressed. As yet he had scarcely looked away from her eyes, but he was dimly aware that up above wisps of golden hair peeped impudently from beneath a saucy black hat. He would look at those wisps shortly, he told himself. As soon as he could look away from the eyes—which was not just yet.
"My grief," said the girl, "is utterly silly and—womanish. I think it would be best to leave me alone with it. Thank you for your interest. And—would you mind asking the gentleman who is pressing his face so feverishly against the bars to kindly close his window?"
"Certainly," replied Mr. Magee. He turned away. As he did so he collided with a rather excessive lady. She gave the impression of solidity and bulk; her mouth was hard and knowing. Mr. Magee felt that she wanted to vote, and that she would say as much from time to time. The lady had a glittering eye; she put it to its time-honored use and fixed Mr. Magee with it.
"I was crying, mamma," the girl explained, "and this gentleman inquired if he could be of any service."
Mamma! Mr. Magee wanted to add his tears to those of the girl. This frail and lovely damsel in distress owning as her maternal parent a heavy unnecessary—person! The older woman also had yellow hair, but it was the sort that suggests the white enamel pallor of a drug store, with the soda-fountain fizzing and the bottles of perfume ranged in an odorous row. Mamma! Thus rolled the world along.
"Well, they ain't no use gettin' all worked up for nothing," advised the unpleasant parent. Mr. Magee was surprised that in her tone there was no hostility to him—thus belying her looks. "Mebbe the gentleman can direct us to a good hotel," she added, with a rather stagy smile.
"I'm a stranger here, too," Mr. Magee replied. "I'll interview the man over there in the cage."
The gentleman referred to was not cheerful in his replies. There was, he said, Baldpate Inn.
"Oh, yes, Baldpate Inn," repeated Billy Magee with interest.
"Yes, that's a pretty swell place," said the ticket agent. "But it ain't open now. It's a summer resort. There ain't no place open now but the Commercial House. And I wouldn't recommend no human being there—especially no lady who was sad before she ever saw it."
Mr. Magee explained to the incongruous family pair waiting on the bench.
"There's only one hotel," he said, "and I'm told it's not exactly the place for any one whose outlook on life is not rosy at the moment. I'm sorry."
"It will do very well," answered the girl, "whatever it is." She smiled at Billy Magee. "My outlook on life in Upper Asquewan Falls," she said, "grows rosier every minute. We must find a cab."
She began to gather up her traveling-bags, and Mr. Magee hastened to assist. The three went out on the station platform, upon which lay a thin carpet of snowflakes. There the older woman, in a harsh rasping voice, found fault with Upper Asquewan Falls,—its geography, its public spirit, its brand of weather. A dejected cab at the end of the platform stood mourning its lonely lot. In it Mr. Magee placed the large lady and the bags. Then, while the driver climbed to his seat, he spoke into the invisible ear of the girl.
"You haven't told me why you cried," he reminded her.
She waved her hand toward the wayside village, the lamps of which shone sorrowfully through the snow.
"Upper Asquewan Falls," she said, "isn't it reason enough?"
Billy Magee looked; saw a row of gloomy buildings that seemed to list as the wind blew, a blurred sign "Liquors and Cigars," a street that staggered away into the dark like a man who had lingered too long at the emporium back of the sign.
"Are you doomed to stay here long?" he asked.
"Come on, Mary," cried a deep voice from the cab. "Get in and shut the door. I'm freezing."
"It all depends," said the girl. "Thank you for being so kind and—good night."
The door closed with a muffled bang, the cab creaked wearily away, and Mr. Magee turned back to the dim waiting-room.
"Well, what was she crying for?" inquired the ticket agent, when Mr. Magee stood again at his cell window.
"She didn't think much of your town," responded Magee; "she intimated that it made her heavy of heart."
"H'm—it ain't much of a place," admitted the man, "though it ain't the general rule with visitors to burst into tears at sight of it. Yes, Upper Asquewan is slow, and no mistake. It gets on my nerves sometimes. Nothing to do but work, work, work, and then lay down and wait for to-morrow. I used to think maybe some day they'd transfer me down to Hooperstown—there's moving pictures and such goings-on down there. But the railroad never notices you—unless you go wrong. Yes, sir, sometimes I want to clear out of this town myself."
"A natural wanderlust," sympathized Mr. Magee. "You said something just now about Baldpate Inn—"
"Yes, it's a little more lively in summer, when that's open," answered the agent; "we get a lot of complaints about trunks not coming, from pretty swell people, too. It sort of cheers things." His eye roamed with interest over Mr. Magee's New York attire. "But Baldpate Inn is shut up tight now. This is nothing but an annex to a graveyard in winter. You wasn't thinking of stopping off here, was you?"
"Well—I want to see a man named Elijah Quimby," Mr. Magee replied. "Do you know him?"
"Of course," said the yearner for pastures new, "he's caretaker of the inn. His house is about a mile out, on the old Miller Road that leads up Baldpate. Come outside and I'll tell you how to get there."
The two men went out into the whirling snow, and the agent waved a hand indefinitely up at the night.
"If it was clear," he said, "you could see Baldpate Mountain, over yonder, looking down on the Falls, sort of keeping an eye on us to make sure we don't get reckless. And half-way up you'd see Baldpate Inn, black and peaceful and winter-y. Just follow this street to the third corner, and turn to your left. Elijah lives in a little house back among the trees a mile out—there's a gate you'll sure hear creaking on a night like this."
Billy Magee thanked him, and gathering up his two bags, walked up "Main Street." A dreary forbidding building at the first corner bore the sign "Commercial House". Under the white gaslight in the office window three born pessimists slouched low in hotel chairs, gazing sourly out at the storm.
hummed Mr. Magee cynically under his breath, and glanced up at the solitary up-stairs window that gleamed yellow in the night.
At a corner on which stood a little shop that advertised "Groceries and Provisions" he paused.
"Let me see," he pondered. "The lights will be turned off, of course. Candles. And a little something for the inner man, in case it's the closed season for cooks."
He went inside, where a weary old woman served him.
"What sort of candles?" she inquired, with the air of one who had an infinite variety in stock. Mr. Magee remembered that Christmas was near.
"For a Christmas tree," he explained. He asked for two hundred.
"I've only got forty," the woman said. "What's this tree for—the Orphans' Home?"
With the added burden of a package containing his purchases in the tiny store, Mr. Magee emerged and continued his journey through the stinging snow. Upper Asquewan Falls on its way home for supper flitted past him in the silvery darkness. He saw in the lighted windows of many of the houses the green wreath of Christmas cheer. Finally the houses became infrequent, and he struck out on an uneven road that wound upward. Once he heard a dog's faint bark. Then a carriage lurched by him, and a strong voice cursed the roughness of the road. Mr. Magee half smiled to himself as he strode on.
"Don Quixote[2], my boy," he muttered, "I know how you felt when you moved on the windmills."
It was not the whir of windmills but the creak of a gate in the storm that brought Mr. Magee at last to a stop. He walked gladly up the path to Elijah Quimby's door.
In answer to Billy Magee's gay knock, a man of about sixty years appeared. Evidently he had just finished supper; at the moment he was engaged in lighting his pipe. He admitted Mr. Magee into the intimacy of the kitchen, and took a number of calm judicious puffs on the pipe before speaking to his visitor. In that interval the visitor cheerily seized his hand, oblivious of the warm burnt match that was in it. The match fell to the floor, whereupon the older man cast an anxious glance at a gray-haired woman who stood beside the kitchen stove.
"My name's Magee," blithely explained that gentleman, dragging in his bags. "And you're Elijah Quimby, of course. How are you? Glad to see you." His air was that of one who had known this Quimby intimately, in many odd corners of the world.
The older man did not reply, but regarded Mr. Magee wonderingly through white puffs of smoke. His face was kindly, gentle, ineffectual; he seemed to lack the final "punch" that send men over the line to success; this was evident in the way his necktie hung, the way his thin hands fluttered.
"Yes," he admitted at last. "Yes, I'm Quimby."
Mr. Magee threw back his coat, and sprayed with snow Mrs. Quimby's immaculate floor.
"I'm Magee," he elucidated again, "William Hallowell Magee, the man Hal Bentley wrote to you about. You got his letter, didn't you?"
Mr. Quimby removed his pipe and forgot to close the aperture as he stared in amazement.
"Good lord!" he cried, "you don't mean—you've really come."
"What better proof could you ask," said Mr. Magee flippantly, "than my presence here?"
"Why," stammered Mr. Quimby, "we—we thought it was all a joke."
"Hal Bentley has his humorous moments," agreed Mr. Magee, "but it isn't his habit to fling his jests into Upper Asquewan Falls."
"And—and you're really going to—" Mr. Quimby could get no further.
"Yes," said Mr. Magee brightly, slipping into a rocking-chair. "Yes, I'm going to spend the next few months at Baldpate Inn."
Mrs. Quimby, who seemed to have settled into a stout little mound of a woman through standing too long in the warm presence of her stove, came forward and inspected Mr. Magee.
"Of all things," she murmured.
"It's closed," expostulated Mr. Quimby; "the inn is closed, young fellow."
"I know it's closed," smiled Magee. "That's the very reason I'm going to honor it with my presence. I'm sorry to take you out on a night like this, but I'll have to ask you to lead me up to Baldpate. I believe those were Hal Bentley's instructions—in the letter."
Mr. Quimby towered above Mr. Magee, a shirt-sleeved statue of honest American manhood. He scowled.
"Excuse a plain question, young man," he said, "but what are you hiding from?"
Mrs. Quimby, in the neighborhood of the stove, paused to hear the reply. Billy Magee laughed.
"I'm not hiding," he said. "Didn't Bentley explain? Well, I'll try to, though I'm not sure you'll understand. Sit down, Mr. Quimby. You are not, I take it, the sort of man to follow closely the light and frivolous literature of the day."
"What's that?" inquired Mr. Quimby.
"You don't read," continued Mr. Magee, "the sort of novels that are sold by the pound in the department stores. Now, if you had a daughter—a fluffy daughter inseparable from a hammock in the summer—she could help me explain. You see—I write those novels. Wild thrilling tales for the tired business man's tired wife—shots in the night, chases after fortunes, Cupid busy with his arrows all over the place! It's good fun, and I like to do it. There's money in it."
"Is there?" asked Mr. Quimby with a show of interest.
"Considerable," replied Mr. Magee. "But now and then I get a longing to do something that will make the critics sit up—the real thing, you know. The other day I picked up a newspaper and found my latest brain-child advertised as 'the best fall novel Magee ever wrote'. It got on my nerves—I felt like a literary dressmaker, and I could see my public laying down my fall novel and sighing for my early spring styles in fiction. I remembered that once upon a time a critic advised me to go away for ten years to some quiet spot, and think. I decided to do it. Baldpate Inn is the quiet spot."
"You don't mean," gasped Mr. Quimby, "that you're going to stay there ten years?"
"Bless you, no," said Mr. Magee. "Critics exaggerate. Two months will do. They say I am a cheap melodramatic ranter. They say I don't go deep. They say my thinking process is a scream. I'm afraid they're right. Now, I'm going to go up to Baldpate Inn, and think. I'm going to get away from melodrama. I'm going to do a novel so fine and literary that Henry Cabot Lodge will come to me with tears in his eyes and ask me to join his bunch of self-made Immortals. I'm going to do all this up there at the inn—sitting on the mountain and looking down on this little old world as Jove looked down from Olympus."
"I don't know who you mean," objected Mr. Quimby.
"He was a god—the god of the fruit-stand men," explained Magee. "Picture me, if you can, depressed by the overwhelming success of my latest brain-child. Picture me meeting Hal Bentley in a Forty-fourth Street club and asking him for the location of the lonesomest spot on earth. Hal thought a minute. 'I've got it', he said, 'the lonesomest spot that's happened to date is a summer resort in mid-winter. It makes Crusoe's island look like Coney on a warm Sunday afternoon in comparison.' The talk flowed on, along with other things. Hal told me his father owned Baldpate Inn, and that you were an old friend of his who would be happy for the entire winter over the chance to serve him. He happened to have a key to the place—the key to the big front door, I guess, from the weight of it—and he gave it to me. He also wrote you to look after me. So here I am."
Mr. Quimby ran his fingers through his white hair.
"Here I am," repeated Billy Magee, "fleeing from the great glitter known as Broadway to do a little rational thinking in the solitudes. It's getting late, and I suggest that we start for Baldpate Inn at once."
"This ain't exactly—regular," Mr. Quimby protested. "No, it ain't what you might call a frequent occurrence. I'm glad to do anything I can for young Mr. Bentley, but I can't help wondering what his father will say. And there's a lot of things you haven't took into consideration."
"There certainly is, young man," remarked Mrs. Quimby, bustling forward. "How are you going to keep warm in that big barn of a place?"
"The suites on the second floor," said Mr. Magee, "are, I hear, equipped with fireplaces. Mr. Quimby will keep me supplied with fuel from the forest primeval, for which service he will receive twenty dollars a week."
"And light?" asked Mrs. Quimby.
"For the present, candles. I have forty in that package. Later, perhaps you can find me an oil lamp. Oh, everything will be provided for."
"Well," remarked Mr. Quimby, looking in a dazed fashion at his wife, "I reckon I'll have to talk it over with ma."
The two retired to the next room, and Mr. Magee fixed his eyes on a "God Bless Our Home" motto while he awaited their return. Presently they reappeared.
"Was you thinking of eating?" inquired Mrs. Quimby sarcastically, "while you stayed up there?"
"I certainly was," smiled Mr. Magee. "For the most part I will prepare my own meals from cans and—er—jars—and such pagan sources. But now and then you, Mrs. Quimby, are going to send me something cooked as no other woman in the county can cook it. I can see it in your eyes. In my poor way I shall try to repay you."
He continued to smile into Mrs. Quimby's broad cheerful face. Mr. Magee had the type of smile that moves men to part with ten until Saturday, and women to close their eyes and dream of Sir Launcelot. Mrs. Quimby could not long resist. She smiled back. Whereupon Billy Magee sprang to his feet.
"It's all fixed," he cried. "We'll get on splendidly. And now—for Baldpate Inn."
"Not just yet," said Mrs. Quimby. "I ain't one to let anybody go up to Baldpate Inn unfed. I 'spose we're sort o' responsible for you, while you're up here. You just set right down and I'll have your supper hot and smoking on the table in no time."
Mr. Magee entered into no dispute on this point, and for half an hour he was the pleased recipient of advice, philosophy, and food. When he had assured Mrs. Quimby that he had eaten enough to last him the entire two months he intended spending at the inn, Mr. Quimby came in, attired in a huge "before the war" ulster, and carrying a lighted lantern.
"So you're going to sit up there and write things," he commented. "Well, I reckon you'll be left to yourself, all right."
"I hope so," responded Mr. Magee. "I want to be so lonesome I'll sob myself to sleep every night. It's the only road to immortality. Good-by, Mrs. Quimby. In my fortress on the mountain I shall expect an occasional culinary message from you." He took her plump hand; this motherly little woman seemed the last link binding him to the world of reality.
"Good-by," smiled Mrs. Quimby. "Be careful of matches."
Mr. Quimby led the way with the lantern, and presently they stepped out upon the road. The storm had ceased, but it was still very dark. Far below, in the valley, twinkled the lights of Upper Asquewan Falls.
"By the way, Quimby," remarked Mr. Magee, "is there a girl in your town who has blue eyes, light hair, and the general air of a queen out shopping?"
"Light hair," repeated Quimby. "There's Sally Perry. She teaches in the Methodist Sunday-school."
"No," said Mr. Magee. "My description was poor, I'm afraid. This one I refer to, when she weeps, gives the general effect of mist on the sea at dawn. The Methodists do not monopolize her."
"I read books, and I read newspapers," said Mr. Quimby, "but a lot of your talk I don't understand."
"The critics," replied Billy Magee, "could explain. My stuff is only for low-brows. Lead on, Mr. Quimby."
Mr. Quimby stood for a moment in dazed silence. Then he turned, and the yellow of his lantern fell on the dazzling snow ahead. Together the two climbed Baldpate Mountain.
