United States or Cuba ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
'But', they said to me, 'there is no place, on land or sea, where the reporters will not find you'. I talked the matter over with my old friend, John Bentley, owner of Baldpate Inn, and he in his kindness gave me the key to this hostelry." The old man paused and passed a silk handkerchief over his bald head. "That, sirs," he said, "is my story.
"Well, what do you know about that," he said. "And they kept telling me Baldpate Inn was the best place say, this is one on Andy Rutter. Why didn't you get it out and beat it?" "How could I?" Mr. Bland asked. "I haven't got the combination. The safe was left open for me. That was the agreement with Rutter." "You might have phoned us not to come," remarked Lou, with an uneasy glance around. Mr.
This seemed to be Max's voice. "There sure is," laughed Cargan. "But what do I care? I own young Drayton. I put him where he is. I ain't afraid. Let them gumshoe round as much as they want to. They can't touch me." "Maybe not," said Bland. "But Baldpate Inn ain't the grand idea it looked at first, is it?" "It's a hell of an idea," answered Cargan. "There wasn't any need of all this folderol.
Another fable was being spun from whole cloth beneath the roof of Baldpate Inn. "We have a New York paper here," he went on, "but as yet there seems to be no news of your sad disappearance." "Wouldn't it be the limit if they didn't fall for it?" queried the older woman.
I expect, before the day is out, at least two gold-laced kings, an exiled poet, and a lord mayor, all armed with keys to Baldpate Inn and stories strange and unconvincing." "Your adventures of the last twenty-four hours," remarked the professor, smiling wanly, "have led you to expect too much. I have made inquiries of Quimby.
That is why you see me on Baldpate Mountain this chill December morning. That is why loneliness can have no terrors, exile no sorrows, for me. That is why I bravely faced your revolver-shots. Again let me repeat, I bear no malice on that score. You have ruined a new derby hat, and the honorarium of professor even at a leading university is not such as to permit of many purchases in that line.
So, when a rattling noise came to his ear on his first morning at Baldpate Inn, Mr. Magee breathed sleepily from the covers: "Good morning, Geoffrey." But no cheery voice replied in terms of sun, wind, or rain. Surprised, Mr. Magee sat up in bed. About him, the maple-wood furniture of suite seven stood shivering in the chill of a December morning.
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.
If I'd known when I saw you here the other night all the exciting things you had up your sleeve, I'd a-gone right up to Baldpate with you." "But I hadn't anything up my sleeve," protested Magee. "Maybe," replied the agent, winking. "There's some pretty giddy stories going round about the carryings-on up at Baldpate.
This gentleman" he indicated the professor, who arose "is Thaddeus Bolton, a distinguished member of a certain university faculty, who has fled to Baldpate to escape the press of America. And this is Mr. Bland, who hides here from the world the scars of a broken heart. But let us not go into details." The girl smiled brightly. "And you " she asked.
Word Of The Day