Kent played as he worked, with concentration and tenacity, backing up technical skill. Against his dogged attack, Sedgwick’s characteristically more brilliant game was unavailing, though the contest was not so uneven but that both were sweating hard as, at the conclusion of the third set, they sought a breathing space on the terraced bank back of the court. “That’s certainly a good nerve sedative,” said the artist breathing hard; “and not such rotten tennis for two aged relics of better days, like ourselves.” “Not so bad by any means,” agreed his opponent cheerfully. “If you had stuck to lobbing, I think you’d have had me, in the second set. Wonder how our spectator enjoyed it,” he added, lowering his voice. “What spectator? There’s no one here, but ourselves.” “Oh, I think there is. Don’t be abrupt about it; but just take a look at that lilac copse on the crest of the hill.” “Can’t see any one there,” said Sedgwick. “No more can I.” “Then what makes you think there’s any one?” “The traditional little bird told me.” “Meaning, specifically?” “Literally what I say. There’s the bird on that young willow. You can see for yourself it’s trying to impart some information.” “I see a grasshopper-sparrow in a state of some nervousness. But grasshopper-sparrows are always fidgety.” “This particular one has reason to be. She has a nest in that lilac patch. A few minutes ago she went toward it with a worm in her beak; hastily dropped the worm, and came out in a great state of mind. Hence I judge there is some intruder near her home.” “Any guess who it is?” “Why it might be Gansett Jim,” replied Kent in a louder voice. “Though it’s rather stupid of him to pick out a bird-inhabited bush as a hiding-place.” The lilac bush shook a little, and Gansett Jim came forth. “He went to Carr’s Junction,” said the half-breed curtly. “You found his trail?” asked Kent. The other nodded. “This morning,” he said. “Find anything else?” “No. I kill him if I get him!” He turned and vanished over the rise of ground back of the court. “Now what does that mean?” demanded Sedgwick in amazement. “That is Gansett Jim’s apology for suspecting you,” explained Kent. “He is our ally now, and this is his first information. What a marvelous thing the bulldog strain in a race is! Nobody but an Indian would have kept to an almost hopeless trail as he has done.” “The trail of the real murderer?” cried Sedgwick. Kent shook his head. “You’re still obsessed with dubious evidence,” he remarked. “Let me see your time-table.” Having studied the schedules that the artist produced for him, he nodded consideringly. “Boston it is, then,” he said. “As I thought. Sedgwick, I’m off for two or three days of travel—if we get through this night without disaster.” CHAPTER XV—THE TURN OF THE GAME