“I am going back to Hedgerow House,” concluded the artist obstinately. “If I were employed to work on this case,” observed Kent dispassionately; “if it were a mere commission, undertaken on money terms, I should throw it up right here and now.” He took a long strong pull at the extension end of his ear, and whistled a bar or two of _Pagliacci_. “Do you know room 571 at the Eyrie?” he asked abruptly. “No. Yes; I do, too. That’s your temple of white silence, isn’t it?” “Correct. Humor me thus far. Walk up to the hotel. Give this card to the clerk. Get the key. Go to that room at once. Lie down on your back with your eyes open, and think for one hour by the watch. If at the end of that time, you still believe you’re right, go ahead. Will you do it?” “Agreed. It’s a bargain. But it won’t change my mind.” “A bargain’s a bargain. It won’t need to,” said Kent coolly. “By that time, if I have any understanding of Mr. Alexander Blair, he will have put your Lady of Mystery on the morning train which leaves for Boston by one of the other roads. If not—why, you may take your chance.” “Tricked!” said Sedgwick. “Well, I owe you too much to go back on my agreement. But—see here, Kent. She’s going to Boston. You’re going to Boston. You can easily find out where the Blairs live. Go to her for me and find—” “Heaven forbid!” cried Kent piously. “Why?” “Haven’t I told you that I am a timid creature and especially about females? Over seventy I like ’em, and under seven I love ’em. Between, I shun ’em. I’ll do anything for you but that, my boy,” he concluded, as the train came rumbling in. “Then I shall have to follow, and look her up myself,” returned his friend. “I’ll wire you before I come. Good-by.” “By the way,” said Kent, leaning out from the car step upon which he had swung himself, “don’t be disturbed if you miss that drawing which we bought from Elder Dennett, at a bargain.” “Miss it? Why, where is it?” “In my suit case.” “What’s it doing there?” “Why, you see, if it’s a sketch for a finished portrait by Elliott, as I suspect, some of the art people in Boston might recognize it. Good luck! I hope _not_ to see you soon; too soon, that is!” Chance and a deranged railway schedule conspired against the peace of mind of the shy and shrinking Kent. Outside of Boston a few miles is a junction and a crossing. Here Kent’s train was held up by some minor accident. Here, too, the train from the north on the other road stopped for orders. Thus it was that Kent, stepping out to take the air, found himself looking into an open Pullman window, at a woman’s face framed in deepest black: a young face, but saddened and weary, whose unforgettable appeal of wistfulness had looked out upon him from the canvas in Sedgwick’s studio. “Mrs. Blair!”