Now listen--I am not really Conrad Lagrange, the man who wrote those books that hurt you so--not when I am here in your rose garden, or when I am listening to your music, or when I am away up there in your mountains, you know.

It is only when I am in the unclean world that reads and likes my books that I am the man who wrote them." Her eyes shone with quick understanding.

"Of course," she agreed, "you _couldn't_ be _that_ kind of a man, and love the music, and like to be here among the roses or up in the mountains, could you ?" "No, and I'll tell you something else that goes with our secret.

Your name is not really Sibyl Andres, you know--any more than you really live over there in that little house.

Your real home is in the mountains--just as you said--you _really_ live among the glowing peaks, under the dark pines, on the ridges, and in the purple shadows of the canyons.