Lagrange, your words recall
to my mind a thought in one of mother's favorite books. She quoted from
the volume so often that, as a youngster, I almost knew it by heart, and,
in turn, it became my favorite. Indeed, I think that, with mother's aid as
an interpreter, it has had more influence upon my life than any other one
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.
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