"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. I beg your pardon--if I have made a mistake--but surely, no harm has been done."
"And you think you could stand living with me--for any length of time?"
The' painter laughed with relief. "Oh, that's it! I didn't know you had such a tender conscience. You scared me for a minute, I should think you would know by this time that you can't phase me with your wicked tongue."
The novelist's face twisted into a grotesque smile. "I warn you--I will flay you and your friends just the same. You need it for the good of your soul."
"As often and as hard as you like"--returned the other, heartily--"just so it's for the good of my soul. You will come?"