he hated Mr. Lowell. He could see through it all. The horrible old man was spidery. He sat inverted in the midst of this, his web, and lured innocent boys into his gaping maw. He had already taken Ken from his home, from his friends—not through any unselfish devotion, but for purposes scarcely to be mentioned even to one's self. He had already outwitted Ken. The significance of that night in Malibu became clearer and clearer as Ken ascended the steps.
Midway, he halted. He must not fail to let the old man know that he was no fool. He must go straight to him now and say—
But what could he say to Mr. Lowell? That, as in a dream, he had gone to Malibu, as in a dream he had experienced a new emotion, one so intangible that he could not tell what had passed between himself and the old man?
As Ken hesitated on the steps, the organ responded to a gentle touch. A pastoral melody, flute-like, a shepherd inviting his flock to share the shadow of a cliff, an old, old melody, derived from some ancient Grecian theme, drifted down from the music room.
Ken listened as he entered the balcony. He stood motionless in the music room loft.
Mr. Lowell was dressed in a black velvet robe. His white arms, bare to the shoulder, moved in the slow rhythm of the plaintive tune. His gray Van Dyck seemed white in the brilliant overhead light.
Ken stood still—listened.
The melody ended.
Without turning, Mr. Lowell spoke.
"I know that is you, Kenneth."
"Yes, Mr. Lowell."
