“Professor Kent,” said Blair. “He and Mr. Sedgwick exhumed the coffin.” “That was the night—” her eyes questioned Sedgwick. “That I found you at Hedgerow House. Yes,” he said gently. “And that my father-in-law charged you with being my husband’s murderer.” “My dear Mrs. Blair!” said Kent uncomfortably. “Remember what justification he thought he had.” She considered a moment. “You are right,” she said with an effort. “I don’t mean to be unjust.” Her head dropped in thought. “Whatever Wilfrid may have been,” she continued, after a moment’s silence, “he was my husband. I bear his name. And to leave him in a nameless grave is to dishonor not him alone, but myself.” “You would claim the body?” cried Alexander Blair. “What else is there for us to do?” she countered. “And bring down upon us unavoidably the publicity which we have escaped at so bitter a price?” cried the elder Blair. “Have we not suffered enough from the scandal of his life, that we should be further involved in the scandal of his death?” “He’s right, miss. It won’t do,” said the sheriff kindly. “Silence is best,” said Sedgwick. “What the papers would do with this,” opined Preston Jax, “would be a plenty.” “My advice is to let be,” proffered Lawyer Bain. “Yeh,” grunted the half-breed. “Oh, are you all against me?” she cried. “Mr. Kent, you, too? Do you think me wrong?” “No,” said Kent. “Will you drag our name, hers as well as mine, in the mud?” cried the head of the house of Blair. “No,” said Kent again. “But how, then—tell me what you intend—” “No,” said Kent, and with such absolute flat finality that the others looked at him in blank silence. The silence was broken by a tremendous sigh. All eyes turned to Preston Jax, who had risen and was leaning against the wall, his chin jerking galvanically. “Well?” said Kent. “What about me?” asked the Star-master miserably. Kent’s fingers twitched at his ear lobe. “Well, what about you?” he repeated. “What are you going to do with me?” “You? Oh! You go back to Irene,” said Kent, with his half smile. “That’s your sentence, if Mrs. Blair approves.” The astrologer drew a quick breath. The light of a great relief softened his hard little eyes. A startled look widened them as Marjorie Blair, her own trouble forgotten for the moment, rose and went over to him, the reflection of another’s happiness shining in her face and making it doubly lovely. A ring glinted in her outstretched hand. “Take this,” she said softly, “for your Irene. May you be very, very happy together!” For the space of five seconds Preston Jax’s chin was motionless. Then a minor cataclysm convulsed it. Speech emerged from that facial quake, in a half-stutter, half-blubber, wholly absurd and laughter-provoking and heart-moving.