“So was I, once—when I had more time. Business has drawn my attention, though never my interest, away from it. I’ve entirely dropped my reading in the last year. By the way, were you here in time to witness the swarm of _antiopas_ last month? Rather unusual, I think.” “No, I missed that. What was the feature, specially?” “The suddenness of the appearance. You know, Helmund says that—” “Pardon me, who?” “Helmund, the Belgian.” “Oh, yes, certainly. Go on!” The stranger went on at some length. He appeared to be an interested rather than a learned student of the subject. As he talked, sitting on the step of his car, from which he had descended, the other studied him, his quiet but forceful voice, his severely handsome face, with its high brows, harsh nose, and chiseled outlines, from which the eyes looked forth, thoughtful, alert, yet with the gaze of a man in pain. Presently he said courteously: “If you are going back to the hotel, may I take you along? I am Alexander Blair.” “Thank you. I’ll be glad of a lift. My name is Chester Kent.” “Not the Professor Kent of the Ramsay case?” “The same. You know, Mr. Blair, I’ve always believed that you had more of a hand in Ramsay’s death than I. Now, if you wish to withdraw your offer of a lift—” “Not at all. A man who has been so abused by the newspapers as I, can stand a little plain speaking. For all that, on my word, Professor Kent, I had no hand in sending Ramsay on that dirty business of his.” The scientist considered him thoughtfully. “Well, I believe you,” said he shortly, and got into the machine. “This meeting is a fortunate chance for me,” said Blair presently. “Chance?” murmured Kent interrogatively. The car swerved sharply, but immediately resumed the middle of the road. “Certainly, chance,” said the motorist. “What else should it be?” “Of course,” agreed Kent. “As you say.” “I said fortunate,” continued the other, “because you are, I believe, the very man I want. There is an affair that has been troubling me a good deal. I haven’t been able to look into it personally, because of the serious illness of my son, who is at my place on Sundayman’s Creek. But it is in your line, being entomological, and perhaps criminal.” “What is it?” asked Kent. “An inexplicable destruction of our stored woolens by the clothes moth. You may perhaps know that I am president of the Kinsella Mills. We’ve been having a great deal of trouble this spring, and our superintendent believes that some enemy is introducing the pest into our warehouses. Will you take the case?” “When?” “Start to-night for Connecticut.” Chester Kent’s long fingers went to the lobe on his ear. “Give me until three o’clock this afternoon to consider. Can I reach you by telephone?” “Yes, at Hedgerow House, my place.” “That is how far from here?”