“Perhaps I can save you by putting it in another form. Your father-in-law gave you to understand, did he not, that Wilfrid Blair met and quarreled with—with a certain person, and was killed in the encounter which followed?” “How shall I ever free myself from the consciousness of my own part in it?” she shuddered. “Don’t—don’t speak of it again. I can’t bear it.” “You won’t have to, very long,” Kent assured her. “Let us get back to the jewels. You would be willing to make a considerable sacrifice to recover them?” “Anything!” “Perhaps you’ve heard something of this man?” Drawing a newspaper page from his pocket, Kent indicated an advertisement outlined in blue pencil. It was elaborately “displayed,” as follows: _Your Fate is Written in the Heavens_ _Consult The_ Star-Master Past, Present and Future are Open Books to His Mystic Game—Be Guided Aright in Business, Love & Health Thousands to Whom he has pointed Out the Way of the Stars Bless Him for His Aid. _Consultation by Appointment_ Preston Jax Suite 77 Mystic Block, 10 Royal Street Mrs. Blair glanced at the announcement. “Some of my friends have been to him,” she said. “For a time he was rather a fad.” “But you haven’t ever consulted him, yourself?” “No, indeed.” “That is well. I want you to go there with me to-day.” “To that charlatan? Why, Professor Kent, I thought you were a scientific man.” “Translate ‘science’ down to its simplest terms in Saxon English,” said Kent. “It would be ‘knowing’, I suppose.” “Exactly. When I think a man knows something which I wish to know but do not know, I try to possess myself of his knowledge, whether he is microscopist, astrologer, or tinsmith. To that extent I am a scientist.” “And you expect the stars to tell us something about my lost topazes?” “They seem to have had some influence on the career of the original owner,” said Kent, with his half smile. “And one star has already lighted up the beginning of the trail for me.” “I can’t understand your motives,” she said. “But I know that I can trust you. When do you wish me to go?” “I have an appointment for us at high noon.” As the clock struck twelve, Kent and Mrs. Blair passed from the broad noonday glare of the street into the tempered darkness of a strange apartment. It was hung about with black cloths, and lighted by the effulgence of an artificial half-moon and several planets, contrived, Kent conjectured, of isinglass set into the fabric, with arc lights behind them. A soft-footed servitor, clad throughout in black, appeared from nowhere, provided chairs, set a pitcher of water beside them, and vanished silently. A faint, heavy, but not unpleasant odor as of incense, hovered in the air. The moon waxed slowly in brightness, illumining the two figures. “Very well fixed up,” whispered Kent to his companion. “The astrologer is now looking us over.”