her pale-blue skirt. “I shall expect you. But not on Thursday evening, remember.”
What an interest it would give to the future menu cards of the Viewpoint Inn to have these printed lines added to them: “Only once during the more than ten years of his lonely existence did the mountain hermit leave his famous cave. That was when he was irresistibly drawn to the inn by the fascinations of Miss Beatrix Trenholme, youngest and most beautiful of the celebrated Trenholme sisters, whose brilliant marriage to—”
Aye, to whom?
The hermit walked back to the hermitage. At the door stood Bob Binkley, his old friend and companion of the days before he had renounced the world—Bob, himself, arrayed like the orchids of the greenhouse in the summer man’s polychromatic garb—Bob, the millionaire, with his fat, firm, smooth, shrewd face, his diamond rings, sparkling fob-chain, and pleated bosom. He was two years older than the hermit, and looked five years younger.
“You’re Hamp Ellison, in spite of those whiskers and that going-away bathrobe,” he shouted. “I read about you on the bill of fare at the inn. They’ve run your biography in
