same favor. Myra Thornhill? He had heard the name, surely. But where?
Mr. Magee s thoughts went back to New York. He wondered what they would say if they could see him now, whirling about in a queer romance not of his own writing—he who had come to Baldpate Inn to get away from mere romancing and look into men's hearts, a philosopher. He laughed out loud.
"To-morrow is another day," he reflected. "I'll solve this whole thing then. They can t go or playing without me—I've got the ball."
He took the package from his pocket. Its seals had already been broken. Untying the strings, he began carefully to unwrap the paper—the thick yellow banking manila, and then the oiled inner wrapping. So finally he opened up the solid mass of—what? He looked closer. Crisp, beautiful, one thousand dollar bills. Whew! He had never seen a bill of this size before. And here were two hundred of them.
He wrapped the package up once more, and prepared for bed. Just as he was about to retire, he
