Half an hour afterward the little funeral procession moved from the house. There was no hearse. Six men carried the coffin. They were all strangers to Kent, and their clothes gave obvious testimony of city origin. Half a dozen other men, and three women, heavily veiled, followed. Kent thrust his glass into his pocket and lifted his rod again. By the time the clergyman had begun the service Kent was close to the obstructing fence. He could hear the faint solemn murmur of the words. Then came the lowering of the casket. The onlooker marked the black and silver sumptuousness of it, and thought of the rough hemlock box that enclosed the anonymous body in Annalaka churchyard. And, as his fly met the water, he smiled a little, grim, wry smile. It was over soon. The black-clad group drifted away. One member paused to glance with curiosity at the roughly clad angler making his way up stream. For Kent judged it wise to absent himself now, foreseeing the advent of one keener-eyed than the mourners, whose scrutiny he did not desire to tempt. Shortly Gansett Jim came to the grave. Hastily and carelessly he pitched in the earth, tramped it down, and returned. Carriages rolled to the door of Hedgerow House, and rolled away again, carrying the mourners to their train. Not until then did Kent snug up his tackle and take the road. No sooner had he reached the hotel and changed into dry clothes, than he made haste to the Nook, and thus addressed Sedgwick. “Now I’m your man for that tennis match.” “Kent, I don’t like your looks,” observed his friend, remarking the scientist’s troubled eyes. “Don’t you? Where are the implements of warfare?” “Here they are,” said the other, producing rackets and balls. “You look to me done up.” “Well, the great game is always something of a gamble, and being usually played for higher stakes than money, is likely to get on one’s nerves.” “The great game?” repeated Sedgwick inquiringly, giving the words Kent’s own emphasis. “Yes. The greatest of all games. You know the Kipling verse, don’t you?” “‘Go stalk the red deer o’er the heather. Ride! Follow the fox if you can! But for pleasure and profit together Afford me the hunting of Man.’” “So, we’re man-hunting, then, to-night,” said the artist quickly. “Far from it,” replied Kent, with fervency. “Let’s drop the subject for the time being, won’t you? I’ve had a morning none too pleasant to look back on, and I’ve got an evening coming none too pleasant to look forward to. Therefore, I shall probably give you the licking of your life on the tennis-court.” “As to the evening,” began Sedgwick, “while I’m—” “Frank,” cried Kent, “there’s a query trying to dislodge itself from your mind and get put into words. Don’t let it!” “Why?” “Because at one single question from you I’ll either bat you over the head with this racket or burst into sobs. It’s a toss-up which.” He threw the implement in the air. “Rough or smooth?” he called.