"
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.
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