"La Lowell is high priestess of a curious cult, Kenneth … a great man—in his way. He weaves enchantments, casts spells, delivers incantations. One must be very young or very strong to resist him. And never weak. He is a curious mixture—devil and god. No ordinary mortal can combat him."
"You've got me wrong, Gregg," Ken said. "I'm not a weak one."
"I hope not—" Gregg's eyes sparkled. "At least be strong enough to be practical. Let him pay you well, as he has paid many others … Pierre, for instance."
"Did he put Pierre in business?"
"Brought him from Paris."
For a moment, Kenneth felt a curious resentment against Mr. Lowell, as if Pierre Fortand had no right to be in Star-ridge now that he was there. He had been sitting on the kitchen table. He rose.
"Where are you going?" Gregg asked.
"To find Kari. I need a drink." He did not consider why he went downstairs, instead of up. This he did, however, passing his own bedroom and going straight to Mr. Lowell's.
He did not knock. He opened the door of the dressing room.
"Who's that?" cried a voice. Pierre Fortand slammed an inner door. Ken stood his ground. The inner door opened. Ken thought he saw Mr. Lowell lying on the bed. Fortand came into the dressing room.
"He's a little drunk. Passed out, I think. I'm taking care of him."
"Can I help?"
"No. And get out of here and stay out—do you hear?"
