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Updated: June 23, 2025
It's the admiral this, and the admiral that, from the moment he enters the door. Nearly every day the manager of Baldpate has a new picture of the admiral taken, and hangs it here in the hotel. I'll show them to you when it's light.
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."
"You promised yesterday," he reminded her, "to show me the pictures of the admiral." "So I did," she replied, rising quickly. "To think you have spent all this time in Baldpate Inn and not paid homage to its own particular cock of the walk." She led him to a portrait hanging beside the desk. "Behold," she said, "the admiral on a sunny day in July.
"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? Climbing 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 comfortable and at home as if you were in a Harlem flat.
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.
Vague shapes seemed to flit about him as he lighted a candle. They whispered in his ear that this was to have been the scene of achievement; that here he was to have written the book that should make his place secure. Ah, well, fate had decreed it otherwise. It had set plump in his path the melodrama he had come up to Baldpate to avoid.
Baldpate Inn was in the past, its doors locked, its seven keys scattered through the dawn. Mrs. Quimby, as she continued to press food upon them, spoke with interest of the events that had come to pass at the inn. "It's so seldom anything really happens around here," she said, "I just been hungering for news of the strange goings-on up there.
The rattling of the windows, and the flickering light two lines of a poem keep running through my head: "'My lord he followed after one who whispered in his ear The weeping of the candles and the wind is all I hear. I don't know who the lord was, nor what he followed perhaps the seventh key. But the weeping candles and the wind seem so romantic and so like Baldpate Inn to-night."
The events of the night danced in giddy array before him as he closed his eyes. With every groan Baldpate Inn uttered in the wind he started up, keen for a new adventure.
Perhaps things will change. I hope they will." "Listen," said Mr. Magee. "I am telling you the truth. Perhaps you read a novel called The Lost Limousine." He was resolved to claim its authorship, tell her of his real purpose in coming to Baldpate, and urge her to confide in him regarding the odd happenings at the inn. "Yes," said the girl before he could continue. "I did read it. And it hurt me.
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