James suppressed a smile. He said, "Mrs. Bagley, the way the trains run
in and out of Shipmont, you're stuck for an overnight stay in any case."

"You don't seem to be perturbed."

"I'm not," he said.

Mrs. Bagley looked at James carefully. His size; his physique was
precisely that of the eight-year-old boy. There was nothing malformed nor
out-of-proportion; yet he spoke with an adult air of confidence.

"I am," she admitted.

"Perturbed? You needn't be," he said. "You've got to remember that
writers are an odd lot. They don't conform. They don't punch time-clocks.
They boast of having written a novel in three weeks but they don't
mention the fact that they sat around drinking beer for six months
plotting it."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that Maxwell sees nothing wrong in attending to his own affairs
and expecting you to attend to yours."

"But what shall I do?"

James smiled. "First, take a look around the house and satisfy yourself.
You'll find the third floor shut off; the rooms up there are Maxwell's,
and no one goes in but him. My bedroom is the big one in the front of the