“Sorry, my boy,” said Kent, “but I’ve got to make a more or less polite call.”
“Didn’t know you had friends in this part of the world,” said Sedgwick in surprise.
“Oh, friends!” said Kent rather disparagingly. “Say acquaintances. People named Blair. Ever know ’em?”
“Used to know a Wilfrid Blair in Paris,” said the artist indifferently.
“What kind of a person was he?”
“An agreeable enough little beast; but a rounder of the worst sort. I won’t go so far as to say that he shocked my moral sense in those days; but he certainly offended my sense of decency. He came back to America, and I lost track of him. Is he the man you’re going to see?”
“No such luck,” said Chester Kent. “I never expect to see Mr. Wilfrid Blair. Probably I shan’t even be invited to his funeral.”
“Oh! Is he dead?”
“His death is officially expected any day.”
Sedgwick examined his friend’s expression with suspicion. “Officially? Then he’s very ill.”