Taking a key from his pocket, he handed it to
his friend.
"What's this?" said the older man, looking foolishly at the key in his
hand.
"It's the key to that door," returned the other, with a gleeful chuckle.
Then--"Unlock it."
"Unlock it?"
"Sure--that's what I gave you the key for."
Conrad Lagrange obeyed. Through the open door, he saw, not the bare and
empty room he supposed was there, but a bedroom--charmingly furnished,
complete in every detail. Turning, he faced his companion silently,
inquiringly--with a look that Aaron King had never before seen in those
strange, baffling eyes.
"It's yours"--said the artist, hastily--"if you care to come. You'll have
a free hand here, you know; for I will be in the studio much of the time.
Kee will cook the things you like. You and Czar can come and go as you
will. There is the arbor in the rose garden, you know, and see here"--he
stepped to the window--"I chose this room for you, because it looks out
upon your mountains."
The strange man stood at the window for, what seemed to the artist, a long
time. Suddenly, he turned to say sharply, "Young man, why did you do
this?"
"Why"--stammered the other, disconcerted--"because I want you--because I
thought you would like to come.
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