Belated, but elated, Kent, after some inquiries, reached his destination by an intricate exchange of trolley lines, and went direct to Cambridge. He found his friend, one of the finest and profoundest philosophers of his time, sitting in a closed house over a game of that form of solitaire appropriately denominated “Idiot’s Delight.” “Very soothing to the mind,” murmured the professor, after welcoming his guest. “So many matters turn out wrong in this world that one finds relief in a problem which usually turns out right.” “I’ve a little problem of my own which may or may not turn out right,” said Kent, “and I want your help.” “It is long since you have done me the honor to consult me,” said the old scholar, smiling. “Not, indeed, since the instance of the cabinet member who was obsessed with a maniacal hatred of apples.” “Without you, I should never have so much as approached the solution of Mr. Carolan’s recall,” returned Kent. “But this present affair calls for aid, not advice.” “Either is equally at your service,” replied the philosopher courteously. Kent outlined the case to him. “You see,” he said, “there is an obvious connection between the unknown body on the beach, and the Blair tragedy.” “Poor Marjorie!” exclaimed the old man. “For her marriage I blame myself, largely. When Marjorie Dorrance was left an orphan, I was her nearest relative of an age and position such as to constitute a moral claim of guardianship. She visited here when she was eighteen; came like a flood of sunlight into this house. A beautiful vivid girl, half-child, half-woman; with a beautiful vivid mind. For her mother’s sake, if not for her own, I should have watched over her, and warded her against the danger of an ‘advantageous’ marriage, such as is always imminent in the set which she entered. Ah, well, I live among the dust and cobwebs of my own dim interests—and when I returned from one of my journeys into the past, I found that Marjorie was engaged to that wretched creature. Now, he is dead. Let be. I have seen little of her in late years. God grant the life with him has not crushed out of her all her sweetness and happiness.” “While I am no judge of women,” said Kent judicially, “I should venture to aver that it hasn’t. But about calling on her—my being a stranger, you see—and in the first days of her widowhood—social conventions, and that sort of thing.” The old scholar made a sweeping gesture of surprising swiftness, suggesting incongruously the possession of great muscular power. The cards flew far and wide, from the stand. “Mist and moonshine, my dear sir! Moonshine and mist! Marjorie is one of those rare human beings who deal honestly with themselves. Her husband’s death can be nothing but a welcome release. She feels no grief; she will pretend to none. Not even to herself. I will take you to her to-morrow.” “Blair ill-treated her?” asked Kent.