* * * * *

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."

Behind them, beautiful Fairlands lay, half lost, in its wilderness of