t of politeness. I shall ask you to tell me about
them and you will be in a hole."

The young man laughed as he said, with straight-forward frankness, "I have
read only one, Mr. Lagrange."

"Which one?"

"The--ah--why--the one, you know--where the husband of one woman falls in
love with the wife of another who is in love with the husband of some one
else. Pshaw!--what is the title? I mean the one that created such a
furore, you know."

"Yes"--said the man, to his dog--"O yes, Czar--I am the famous Conrad
Lagrange. I observe"--he added, turning to the other, with twinkling
eyes--"I observe, Mr. King, that you really _do_ have a good bit of your
mother's character. That you do not read my books is a recommendation that
I, better than any one, know how to appreciate." 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 s