I congratulate you, young man"-- he paused; then added with indescribable bitterness--"that you have not read my books." 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.