The younger man answered in a like vein; “Mr. Lagrange, your words recall to my mind a thought in one of mother’s favorite books.  She quoted from the volume so often that, as a youngster, I almost knew it by heart, and, in turn, it became my favorite.  Indeed, I think that, with mother’s aid as an interpreter, it has had more influence upon my life than any other one book.  This is the thought:  ’To understand the message of the mountains; to love them for what they are; and, in terms of every-day life, to give expression to that understanding and love—­is a mark of true greatness of soul.’  I do not know the author.  The book is anonymous.”

“I am the author of that book, sir,” the strange man answered with simple dignity, “—­or, rather,—­I should say,—­I was the author,” he added, with a burst of his bitter, sarcastic humor.  “For God’s sake don’t betray me.  I am, now, the famous Conrad Lagrange, you understand.  I have a name to protect.”  His deep voice was shaken with feeling.  His worn and rugged features twitched and worked with emotion.

Aaron King listened in amazement to the words that were spoken by the famous novelist with such pathetic regret and stinging self-accusation.  Not knowing how to reply, he said casually, “You are working here, Mr. Lagrange?”

“Working!  Me?  I don’t work anywhere.  I am a literary scavenger.  I haunt the intellectual slaughter pens, and live by the putrid offal that self-respecting writers reject.  I glean the stinking materials for my stories from the sewers and cesspools of life.  For the dollars they pay, I furnish my readers with those thrills that public decency forbids them to experience at first hand.  I am a procurer for the purposes of mental prostitution.  My books breed moral pestilence and spiritual disease.  The unholy filth I write fouls the minds and pollutes the imaginations of my readers.  I am an instigator of degrading immorality and unmentionable crimes. Work!  No, young man, I don’t work.  Just now, I’m doing penance in this damned town.  My rotten imaginings have proven too much—­even for me—­and the doctors sent me West to recuperate,”

The artist could find no words that would answer.  In silence, the two men turned away from the mountains, and started back along the avenue by which they had come.

When they had walked some little distance, the young man said, “This is your first visit to Fairlands, Mr. Lagrange?”

“I was here last year”—­answered the other—­“here and in the hills yonder.  Have you been much in the mountains?”

“Not in California.  This is my first trip to the West.  I have seen something of the mountains, though, at tourist resorts—­abroad.”

“Which means,” commented the other, “that you have never seen them at all.”

Aaron King laughed.  “I dare say you are right.”

“And you—?” asked the novelist, abruptly, eyeing his companion.  “What brought you to this community that thinks so much more of its millionaires than it does of its mountains?  Have you come to Fairlands to work?”