For once in his life, Chester Kent’s controlled tongue had broken the leash. Immediately he would have given a considerable sum of money to recall his impulsive exclamation. He was in an agony of shyness. But it was too late. The girlish face turned. The composed eyes scanned a serious-looking man of indeterminate age, clad in the cool elegance of light gray, and obviously harassed by some catastrophic embarrassment. “I beg p-p-pardon,” stuttered the man. “Are you Mr. Blair? I’m Mrs. Kent.” At this astonishing announcement, amusement gleamed in the woman’s eyes, and gave a delicate up-twist to the corners of the soft mouth. “I don’t recognize you in your present attire, Mrs. Kent,” she murmured. “No. Of course not. I—I—meant to say—that is you know—” Kent gathered his forces, resolved desperately to see it through, now. “I’m M-M-Mrs. Blair and I suppose you’re Mr. Kent.” The soft music of her laughter made Kent savage. “Damn!” he muttered beneath his breath; and then went direct to the point. “There are things I want to speak to you about. I wish to get on your car.” “Certainly not,” replied she decisively. “I do not know you.” “I am a friend of Francis Sedgwick’s.” The warm blood flushed her cheeks rose-color, and died away. Her lips quivered. So much of mute helpless misery did her face show, that Kent’s embarrassment vanished. “Try to believe me,” he said earnestly, “when I tell you that I wish only to save both of you misunderstanding and suffering. _Needless_ misunderstanding and suffering,” he added. “It is too late,” she said hopelessly. “Forgive me, but that is foolish. Your mind has been led astray. Sedgwick is absolutely blameless.” “Please,” she begged in a half whisper, “I can’t listen. I mustn’t listen. I have tried to make myself believe that he acted in self-defense. But, even so, don’t you see, it must stand forever between us?” “Now, what cock-and-bull story has Alexander Blair told her?” Kent demanded of his mind. “How much does she know, or how little?” The jar and forward lurch of the car before him brought him out of his reverie. “Can I see you in Boston?” he asked hurriedly. She shook her head. “Not now. I can see no one. And, remember, I do not even know you.” Kent cast about rapidly in his mind, as he walked along with the car, for some one who might be a common acquaintance. He mentioned the name of a very great psychologist at Harvard. “Do you know him?” he asked. “Yes. He is my mother’s half-brother.” “And my valued friend,” he cried. “May I get him to bring me?” He was almost running now beside the window. “Yes,” she assented. “If you insist. But I will hear no word of—of your friend.” “I understand. Agreed,” called Kent. “To-morrow morning, then.” And he walked, whistling a melancholious theme, to the platform. Another whistle answered his. It was that of his train, disappearing around the curve a mile down the track.