Three hours later, wet and bedraggled, but with a fire at his heart, the night-farer came to his home and roused Kent from slumber on the studio couch. “And where have you been?” demanded the scientist. “She was in the house. I’ve seen her.” “Exactly what I wished to prevent. I don’t think you’ve done yourself any good.” “Any good,” groaned his friend. “She left me believing that I am the murderer of the unknown woman.” “Indeed! You’ve done worse, even, than I had feared. Tell me.” In brief outline, Sedgwick told of the moonlight interview. Kent gripped at his ear lobe, and for a time sought silently to draw clarification of ideas from it. “Do you know,” he said at length, “I wouldn’t wonder if Blair really thought you the murderer.” “I would,” declared Sedgwick savagely. “He knows who murdered that woman. It was his own son, whom he pretended to bury, for a blind.” And the artist proceeded to outline eagerly his newly developed idea. “That’s an interesting theory,” said Chester Kent slowly. “A very interesting and ingenious theory. I’ll admit to you now that something of the sort occurred to my mind early in the development of the mystery, but I forsook it because of one fact that rather militates against its probability.” “What is that?” “The fact,” replied Kent with a slow smile, “that Wilfrid Blair was dead before his father ever learned of the tragedy of Lonesome Cove.” CHAPTER XVII—CHANCE SITS IN Suit case at his side, Chester Kent stood on the platform of the Martindale Center station, waiting for the morning train to Boston. Before him paced Sedgwick, with a face of storm. “This is something I must do for myself,” the artist declared, with that peculiar flatness of obstinacy which goes with an assertion repeatedly made. “Not you, nor any other man, can do it for me.” “Not you, nor any other man, should attempt it at all, now,” retorted the scientist. “That’s the view of the pedant,” cried Sedgwick. “What do you know of love?” “Nothing, except as a force obstructive to reason.” “But, Chet, I _must_ see her again,” pleaded Sedgwick; “I must—” “Exhibit that tact and delicacy which you displayed at your last meeting,” broke in Kent curtly. “Asking a woman to marry you, on the day of her husband’s burial!” “It wasn’t her husband’s burial.” “She supposed it was.” Sedgwick checked his nervous pacing. “Do you think so? You believe she wasn’t a party to that ghastly fraud?” “Certainly not. She attended the funeral ceremony in good faith. In my belief the real circumstances of Blair’s death are as unknown to her as they are to—to you.” “Assuming always that he is dead. Your confidence being so sound, it must be based on something. How did he come to his death?” “If I knew that, I shouldn’t be going to Boston to consult an astrologer.” “Have you still got astrology on the brain?” “Hopelessly,” smiled Kent. “Luck go with you. And I—” “Yes: and you?” queried Kent, as the other hesitated.