“Five dollars is a big price for a rough pencil sketch,” said the scientist. “I’d have to know more of the picture to pay that for it. Where did you find it?” “In this book. I bought the book at Dimmock’s rummage auction.” He produced a decrepit, loosely-bound edition of the _Massachusetts Agricultural Reports_. “The picture was stuck in between the leaves.” “No name in the book,” said Kent. “The flyleaf is gone. But here’s the date of publication: 1830.” “That would be just about right,” said Sedgwick with lively interest. “Right for what?” demanded Dennett. Before there was time for reply, Kent had pressed a five-dollar bill into his hand, with the words: “You’ve made a trade.” “Wait,” protested the Elder. But the sketch was already in Sedgwick’s possession. “It’s an Elliott,” said that gentleman. “I’m sure of it. I’ve seen his sketches before—though they’re very rare—and there’s an unmistakable touch about his pencil work.” “In that case,” said Kent suavely, “Mr. Dennett will be gratified to know that he has sold for five dollars an article worth fifty times that.” They left him, groaning at his door, and went to look up Dimmock, the rummage man. But he was wholly unable to throw any light on the former owner of the reports, in which the drawing had been tucked away. There the investigation seemed to be up against a blank wall. “Isn’t it astounding!” said Sedgwick. “Here’s a portrait antedating 1830, of a woman who has just died, young. What was the woman I saw; a revenant in the flesh?” “If you ask me,” said Kent slowly, “I should say, rather, an imitation.” Further he would not say, but insisted on returning to the Nook. As they arrived, the telephone bell was ringing with the weary persistence of the long-unanswered. To Kent’s query, Lawyer Bain’s voice announced: “I’ve been trying to get you for an hour.” “Sorry,” said Kent. “Is it about the newspapers?” “Yes,” said the lawyer. “I’ve got the information.” And he stated that four newspapers went regularly to Hedgerow House,—_The New York Star_ and _Messenger_ and _The Boston Eagle_ to Alexander Blair, and _The Boston Free Press_ to Wilfrid Blair. Over this information Kent whistled in such melancholy tones that his host was moved to protest. “You’re on the track of something, and you’re keeping it dark from me!” “I’m not traveling the most brilliantly illuminated paths myself, my young friend,” replied Kent, and lapsed into silence. The artist set the Elliott sketch beside the copy, and compared them for a time. Then he fell to wandering desolately about the studio. Suddenly he turned, walked over to his friend, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Kent, for the love of heaven, can’t you do something for me?” “You mean about the girl?” Sedgwick nodded. “I can’t get my mind to stay on anything else. Even this infernal puzzle of the pictures doesn’t interest me for more than the minute. The longing for her is eating the heart out of me.”