The light of humor went from his face, suddenly, as it had come.  Again he turned away; and his deep voice was gentle as he continued, “Your mother is a rare and beautiful spirit, sir.  Knowing her regard for the true and genuine,—­her love for the pure and beautiful,—­I scarcely expected to find her son interested in the realism of my fiction.  I congratulate you, young man”—­he paused; then added with indescribable bitterness—­“that you have not read my books.”

For a few moments, Aaron King did not answer.  At last, with quiet dignity, he said, “My mother was a remarkable woman, Mr. Lagrange.”

The other faced him quickly.  “You say was?  Do you mean—?”

“My mother is dead, sir.  I was called home from abroad by her illness.”

For a little, the older man sat looking into the gathering dusk.  Then, deliberately, he refilled his brier pipe, and, rising, said to his dog, “Come, Czar—­it’s time to go.”

Without a word of parting to his human companion with the dog moving sedately by his side, he disappeared into the darkness of the night.

* * * * *

All the next day, Aaron King—­in the hotel dining-room, the lobby, and on the veranda—­watched for the famous novelist.  Even on the streets of the little city, he found himself hoping to catch a glimpse of the uncouth figure and the homely, world-worn face of the man whose unusual personality had so attracted him.  The day was nearly gone when Conrad Lagrange again appeared.  As on the evening before, the young man was smoking his after-dinner cigar on the veranda, when the Irish Setter and a whiff of pipe smoke announced the strange character’s presence.

Without taking a seat, the novelist said, “I always have a look at the mountains, at this time of the day, Mr. King—­would you care to come?  These mountains are the real thing, you know, and well worth seeing—­particularly at this hour.”  There was a gentle softness in his deep voice, now—­as unlike his usual speech as his physical appearance was unlike that of his younger companion.

Aaron King arose quickly.  “Thank you, Mr, Lagrange; I will go with pleasure.”

Accompanied by the dog, they followed the avenue, under the giant pepper trees that shut out the sky with their gnarled limbs and gracefully drooping branches, to the edge of the little city; where the view to the north and northeast was unobstructed by houses.  Just where the street became a road, Conrad Lagrange—­putting his hand upon his companion’s arm—­said in a low voice, “This is the place.”