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,"