The gray-haired man sat down at the table, and Lowell, in response to a wave of the hand that held the pipe, drew up opposite.
"You and I have been living pretty close together a long time," said Lowell bluntly, "and if we'd been a little more neighborly, this call might not be so difficult in some ways."
"My fault entirely." Again the hand waved—this time toward the ceiling-high shelves of books. "Library slavery makes a man selfish, I'll admit."
The voice was cold and hard. It was such a voice that had extended a mocking welcome to Helen Ervin when she had stood hesitatingly on the threshold of the Greek Letter Ranch-house. Lowell sneered openly.
"You haven't always been so tied up to your books that you couldn't get out," he said. "I want to take you back to a little horseback ride which you took just six weeks ago."
"I don't remember such a trip."
"You will remember it, as I particularize."
"Very well. You are beginning to interest me."
"You rode from here to the top of the hill on the Dollar Sign road. Do you remember?"
"What odds if I say yes or no? Go on. I want to hear the rest of this story."