“Sailor Smith was cabin-boy on one of the old Hogg fleet one voyage,” explained Elder Dennett. “God forgive me for it!” said the old man. “There they hang; and with ’em the chains and—” “Isn’t that lamp finished yet?” demanded Kent, turning sharply upon Elder Dennett. Having paid for it—with something extra for his curtness—he led the seaman out of the place. “You were going to say ‘and handcuffs’, weren’t you?” he inquired. “Why, yes. What of that?” asked the veteran, puzzled. Suddenly he brought his hand down with a slap on his thigh. “Where was my wits?” he cried. “Them irons on the dead woman’s wrist—I knew I’d seen their like before! Slave manacles! They must ‘a’ come from Hogg’s Haven!” “Very likely. But that suspicion had better be kept quiet, at present.” “Aye, aye, sir,” agreed the other. “More devilment from the old Haven? A bad house—a rotten bad house!” “Yet I’ve a pressing desire to take a look at it,” said Chester Kent musingly. “Going back to Annalaka, Mr. Smith? I’ll walk with you as far as the road to Mr. Sedgwick’s.” Freed of the veteran’s company at the turn of the road, Kent sat down and took his ear in hand, to think. “Miss Dorrance,” he mused, “Marjorie Dorrance. What simpler twist for a nickname than to transform that into Marjorie Daw? Poor Sedgwick!” At the Nook he found the object of his commiseration mournfully striving to piece together, as in a mosaic, the shattered remnants of his work. Sedgwick brightened at his friend’s approach. “For heaven’s sake, come out and do me a couple of sets of tennis!” he besought. “I’m no sport for you, I know, particularly as my nerves are jumpy; but I need the work.” “Sorry, my boy,” said Kent, “but I’ve got to make a more or less polite call.” “Didn’t know you had friends in this part of the world,” said Sedgwick in surprise. “Oh, friends!” said Kent rather disparagingly. “Say acquaintances. People named Blair. Ever know ’em?” “Used to know a Wilfrid Blair in Paris,” said the artist indifferently. “What kind of a person was he?” “An agreeable enough little beast; but a rounder of the worst sort. I won’t go so far as to say that he shocked my moral sense in those days; but he certainly offended my sense of decency. He came back to America, and I lost track of him. Is he the man you’re going to see?” “No such luck,” said Chester Kent. “I never expect to see Mr. Wilfrid Blair. Probably I shan’t even be invited to his funeral.” “Oh! Is he dead?” “His death is officially expected any day.” Sedgwick examined his friend’s expression with suspicion. “Officially? Then he’s very ill.” “No, he isn’t ill at all.” “Don’t you think you overdo this business of mystification sometimes, Kent?” “Merely a well-meant effort,” smiled the other, “to divert your mind from your own troubles—before they get any worse.” With which cheering farewell Kent stepped out and into his waiting car. CHAPTER XII—THE UNBIDDEN VISITOR