Slowly Kent climbed the road to the crest of the hill; then stopped and looked back into the studio, which had sprung into light as soon as he left. Sedgwick’s figure loomed, tall and spare, in the radiance. The artist was standing before his easel, looking down at it fixedly. Kent knew what it was that he gazed on, and as the lovely wistful girl-face rose in his memory he sighed, a little. “I mustn’t forget that quest,” he said. “Poor old Sedgwick!” But, once in his room, the picture faded, and there came before his groping mental vision instead the spectacle of two dark figures, chained together and battling, the one for life, the other for some mysterious elusive motive that fluttered at the portals of his comprehension like a half-remembered melody. And the second struggling figure, whose face was hidden, flashed in the moonlight with the sheen of silver stars against black. CHAPTER IX—CHESTER KENT DECLINES A JOB Sundayman’s Creek Road, turning aside just before it gains the turnpike to the Eyrie Hotel to evade a stretch of marsh, travels on wooden stilts across a deep clear pool fed by a spring. Signs at each end of the crossing threaten financial penalties against any vehicle traversing the bridge faster than a walk. Now, the measure of a walk for an automobile is dubious; but the most rigorous constable could have found no basis for protest in the pace maintained by a light electric car, carrying a short, slender, elderly man, who peered out with weary eyes into the glory of the July sunshine. At the end of the bridge the car stopped to allow its occupant a better view of a figure prostrate on the brink of the pool. Presently the figure came to the posture of all fours. The face turned upward, and the motorist caught the glint of a monocle. Then the face turned again to its quest. “Are you looking for something lost?” asked the man in the car. “Yes,” was the reply. “Very much lost.” “When did you lose it, if it’s not an impertinent question?” “Not in the least,” answered the other cordially. “I didn’t lose it at all.” “Ah!” The motorist smiled. “When was it lost, then?” Across the monocled face passed a shadow of thoughtful consideration. “About four million years ago, I should judge.” “And you are still looking? I perceive that you are an optimist,” said the elderly man. “Just at present I’m a limnologist.” “Pardon me?” “A limnologist. Limnology is the science of the life found on the banks of small bodies of water. It is a fascinating study, I assure you. There is only one chair of limnology in the world.” “And you, I presume, are the incumbent?” asked the other politely. “No, indeed! The merest amateur, on the contrary. I’m humbly hoping to discover the eggs of certain neuropterous insects. We know the insects, and we know they lay eggs; but how they conceal them has been a secret since the first dragon-fly rose from the first pool.” “Ah! You are an entomologist, then.” “To some extent.”