“Clarity of vision go with you, amid your riddles,” said his host with a smile, shuffling the cards which Kent had gathered up for him. “Here is my all-sufficient riddle. Watch me now, how I meet and vanquish the demon mischance.” He turned up a card. “Ah,” said he with profound satisfaction, “the seven of spades. My luck runs in sevens.” CHAPTER XVIII—THE MASTER OF STARS Ten o’clock of the following morning found the Harvard professor formally presenting his friend, Chester Kent, to Mrs. Wilfrid Blair, at the house of the cousin with whom she was staying. “My dear,” said the old gentleman, “you may trust Professor Kent’s judgment and insight as implicitly as his honor. I can give no stronger recommendation, and will now take my leave.” Kent resisted successfully a wild and fearful desire to set a restraining hold upon the disappearing coat tails, for embarrassment had again engulfed the scientist’s soul. He seized himself by the lobe of the ear with that grip which drowning men reserve for straws. And—to continue the comparison—the ear sank with him beneath the waves of confusion. Mrs. Blair’s first words did not greatly help him. “Have you an earache, Professor Kent?” she inquired maliciously. “Yes. No. It’s a habit,” muttered the caller, releasing his hold and immediately resuming it. “Isn’t it very painful?” “Of course it is,” said he testily; “when I forget to let go in time—as I frequently do.” “As you are doing now,” she suggested. Kent bestowed a final yank upon the dried fount of inspiration, and gave it up as hopeless. “I don’t know exactly how to begin,” he complained. “Then I will help you,” said she, becoming suddenly grave. “You are here to speak to me of some topic, wholly distinct from one forbidden phase.” “Exactly. You make it difficult for me by that restriction. And I rather like difficulties—in reason. Let me see. Have you lost any jewels lately, Mrs. Blair?” The girl-widow started. “Yes. How did you know?” “You have made no complaint, or published no advertisements for them?” “I have kept it absolutely secret. Father Blair insisted that I should do so.” “They were valuable, these jewels?” “The rings were, intrinsically, but what I most valued was the necklace of rose-topazes. They were the Grosvenor topazes.” “A family relic?” “Not my own family. My husband’s mother left them to me. They came down to her from her grandmother, Camilla Grosvenor.” “You speak that name as if it should be recognizable by me.” “Perhaps it would, if you were a New Englander. She was rather a famous person in her time. C. L. Elliott painted her—one of his finest portraits, I believe. And—and she was remarkable in other respects.” “Would you mind being more specific? It isn’t mere curiosity on my part.”