“Well, it can’t be done now,” cried the artist in sudden sharp excitement. “It won’t do. Stop the car, Kent!” Kent’s voice took an ominously deliberate measure. “Listen,” said he; “I am going through with this—now—to-night. If you wish to withdraw—” “That’s enough,” growled the artist. “No man alive can say that to me.” The car slowed up. “I beg your pardon, Frank,” said Kent. “We’re both of us a little on edge to-night. This is no time for misunderstandings. What is on your mind?” “Just this. Annalaka burying-ground is watched. Lawyer Bain said as much. Don’t you remember? He told us that the house next door is occupied by an old sleepless asthmatic who spends half her nights in her window overlooking the graves.” The car shot forward again. “Is that all?” asked Kent. “Isn’t it enough?” “Hardly. We’re not going within miles of Annalaka.” “Then our night’s work is not—” Kent could feel his companion’s revolt at the unuttered word, and supplied it for him. “Grave robbery? It is.” “Where?” “In a private burying-ground on the Blairs’ estate.” “Wilfrid Blair’s grave? When was the funeral?” “This morning. I was among those present, though I don’t think my name will be mentioned in the papers.” “Why should you have been there?” “Oh, set it down to vulgar curiosity,” said Kent. “Probably you’d say the same if I asked you the motive for this present expedition. I suppose you fully appreciate the chance we are taking?” “Didn’t I tell you that it was rather more than a life-and-death risk?” Something cold touched Sedgwick’s hand in the darkness. His fingers closed around a flask. “No, no Dutch courage for me. Where is this place?” “On Sundayman’s Creek, some fourteen miles from the Nook as the motor-car flies.” “Fourteen miles,” repeated Sedgwick musingly, following a train of thought that suddenly glowed, a beacon-light of hope. “And these Blairs have some connection with the dead woman of the cove, the woman who wore _her_ jewels.” His fingers gripped and sank into Kent’s hard-fibered arm. “Chet, for the love of heaven, tell me! Is she one of these Blairs?” “No nonsense, Sedgwick,” returned the other sternly. “You’re to act,—yes, and _think_—under orders till the night’s job is done.” There was silence for nearly half an hour, while the car slipped, ghostlike, along the wet roadway. Presently it turned aside and stopped. “Foot work now,” said Kent. “Take the spades and follow.” He himself, leading the way, carried a coil of rope on his shoulders. For what Sedgwick reckoned to be half a mile they wallowed across soaked meadows, until the whisper of rain upon water came to his ears. “Keep close,” directed his guide, and preceded him down a steep bank.