“Jove. A friend of yours?”
“A sort of friend,” answered Barnes.
He referred to his father. What had he got out of it? He was tied hand and foot in a gingerbread apartment house. His two million had never given him an hour like that by the trout-brook.
“I suppose,” suggested Carl, “it’s the spell that makes them stand it—a sort of mountain Lorelei.”
Barnes started.
“That wouldn’t make a bad theme for an opera,” mused Carl.
Barnes turned to him with renewed interest.
“Have you ever done anything in that line?” he asked.
A new light came into Langdon’s face at the question.
“Not yet.”