“When I come to tackle it,” continued Kent, “I may find that one man could do it alone. But—” “Wait. You’re going into it, are you?” “Oh, certainly.” “With, or without me?” “Yes.” “Why couldn’t you have said so at first and saved this discussion?” cried his host. “Of course, if you’re in for it, so am I. But what about _your_ reputation?” “It’s worth a good deal to me,” confessed the scientist. “And I can’t deny I’m staking it all on my theory of this case. If I’m wrong—well, it’s about the finis of my career.” “See here, Chet!” broke out his friend. “Do you think I’m going to let you take that kind of a chance for me?” “It isn’t for you,” declared the other with irritation. “It’s for myself. Can’t you understand that this is _my_ case? You’re only an incident in it. I’m betting my career against—well, against the devil of mischance, that I’m right. As I told you, I’m naturally timid. I don’t plunge, except on a practically sure thing. So don’t get any foolish notions of obligation to me. Think it over. Meantime, do you care to run over to the library? No? Well, for the rest of the evening I can be found—no; I can not be found, though I’ll be there—in room 571.” “All right,” said Sedgwick. “You needn’t fear any further intrusion. But when is our venture?” “To-morrow night,” replied Kent, “Wilfrid Blair having officially died, as per specifications, to-day.” CHAPTER XIV—THE LONE FISHERMAN Trout are a tradition rather than a prospect in Sundayman’s Creek. Some, indeed, consider them a myth. Hope springs eternal in the human breast, however, and a fisherman, duly equipped, might have been observed testing the upper reaches of the stream on the morning of July tenth. Although his rod and tackle were of the best, his apparel was rough, not to say scrubby. An old slouch hat was drawn down over his forehead, and staring blue glasses sheltered his eyes against the sun, which was sufficiently obscured—for most tastes—by a blanket of gray cloud, promising rain. Under arching willow, and by promising rock, his brown hackle flickered temptingly, placed by an expert hand. But, except for one sunfish who had exhibited suicidal curiosity, there was none to admire his proficiency. One individual, indeed, had witnessed it, but without admiration—an urchin angling under a bridge for bullheads. “W’at yer gittin’ with that rig?” he had inquired with the cynicism of the professional. “Oh, some snags, and an occasional branch, and now and then a milkweed,” returned the angler amiably. “Well, you can’t fish below the nex’ bend,” the urchin informed him. “Them folks that bought Hogg’s Haven has wire-fenced off the creek.”