“It seems quite probable,” said Kent with a faint smile, “that you were taken for some one else. Your personal appearance would hardly betray the error, however.” “Well, if I was taken for another man,” said the puzzled astrologist, “why didn’t she say so when she saw me?” “What did she say when she saw you?” “Why, she seemed just as tickled to set eyes on me as if I were her Hermann twice over.” “Exactly,” replied Kent with satisfaction. “Well, how do you account for that?” Passing over the query, the other proceeded: “Now, as I understand it, you put yourself in my hands unreservedly.” “What else can I do?” cried Preston Jax. “Nothing that would be so wise. So do not try. I shall want you to come to Martindale Center on call. Pack up and be ready.” “But the police!” quavered Jax. “You said the place was guarded, and I’d be pinched if I tried to get out.” “Oh, no,” retorted Kent, with a smile. “That wouldn’t have been true, and I never lie. You inferred that, and wrongly, from my little ruse to keep you from running away. That you would be arrested eventually, if you attempted escape was true. It still is true.” “I believe it,” replied Preston Jax fervently, “with you on my trail.” “Come, Mrs. Blair,” said Kent. “Remember, Jax: fair play, and we shall pull you through yet.” In the taxi, Marjorie Blair turned to Kent. “You are a very wonderful person,” she said—Kent shook his head—“and, I think, a very kind one.” Kent shook his head again. “Be kind to me, and leave me to go home alone.” Kent stopped the cab, stepped out and raised his hat. She leaned toward him. “Just a moment,” she said. “Perhaps I ought not to ask; but it is too strong for me. Will you tell me who the woman was?” Kent fell back a step, his eyes widening. “You don’t see it yet?” he asked. “Not a glimmer of light. Unless she was some—some unacknowledged member of the family.” “No. Not that.” “And you can’t tell me who she was?” “Yes; but not just now. Try to be patient for a little, Mrs. Blair.” “Very well. Your judgment is best, doubtless. Of course you know whose hand wrote the body of that letter?” “Yes; try not to think of it,” advised Kent. “It isn’t nearly so ugly as it seems.” She looked at him with her straight, fearless, wistful glance. “He had left me nothing to love,” she said sadly; “but to find disgrace and shame even to the end of his life! That is hard. That it should have been my husband who gave the thing most precious to me to another woman! But why did he write the letter to Preston Jax for her to sign?” Chester Kent shook his head. CHAPTER XIX—THE STRANGE TRYST Midnight found Kent in the throes of literary effort. He was striving to compose a letter to Sedgwick that should, in turn, compose the recipient’s perturbed feelings. It concluded, with some acerbity: “You’ve made a pretty complete idiot of yourself once. Don’t try to eclipse your own record.”