Very often, too, the big touring car from the house on Fairlands Heights stopped in front of the cottage, while the occupants inspected the premises, and—­with many exclamations of flattering praise, and a few suggestions—­made manifest their interest.

In time, it was finished and ready—­from the big easel by the great, north window in the studio, to the white-jacketed Yee Kee in the kitchen.  When the last workman was gone with his tools; and the two men, after looking about the place for an hour, were standing on the front porch; Conrad Lagrange said, “And the stage is set.  The scene shifters are off.  The audience is waiting.  Ring up the curtain for the next act.  Even Czar has looked upon everything and calls it good—­heh Czar?”

The dog went to him; and, for some minutes, the novelist looked down into the brown eyes of his four-footed companion who seemed so to understand.  Still fondling the dog,—­without looking at the artist,—­the older man continued, “You will have your things moved over in the morning, I suppose?  Or, will we lunch together, once more?”

Aaron King laughed—­as a boy who has prepared a surprise, and has been struggling manfully to keep the secret until the proper moment should arrive.  Placing his hand on the older man’s shoulder, he answered meaningly, “I had planned that we would move in the morning.”  At the other’s puzzled expression he laughed again.

“We?” said the novelist, facing his friend, quickly.

“Come here,” returned the other.  “I must show you something you haven’t seen.”

He led the way to a room that they had decided he would not need, and the door of which was locked.  Taking a key from his pocket, he handed it to his friend.

“What’s this?” said the older man, looking foolishly at the key in his hand.

“It’s the key to that door,” returned the other, with a gleeful chuckle.  Then—­“Unlock it.”

“Unlock it?”

“Sure—­that’s what I gave you the key for.”

Conrad Lagrange obeyed.  Through the open door, he saw, not the bare and empty room he supposed was there, but a bedroom—­charmingly furnished, complete in every detail.  Turning, he faced his companion silently, inquiringly—­with a look that Aaron King had never before seen in those strange, baffling eyes.

“It’s yours”—­said the artist, hastily—­“if you care to come.  You’ll have a free hand here, you know; for I will be in the studio much of the time.  Kee will cook the things you like.  You and Czar can come and go as you will.  There is the arbor in the rose garden, you know, and see here”—­he stepped to the window—­“I chose this room for you, because it looks out upon your mountains.”

The strange man stood at the window for, what seemed to the artist, a long time.  Suddenly, he turned to say sharply, “Young man, why did you do this?”

“Why”—­stammered the other, disconcerted—­“because I want you—­because I thought you would like to come.  I beg your pardon—­if I have made a mistake—­but surely, no harm has been done.”