“I leave you to the company of your theory, sir,” said he, and the door closed sharply after him.
Three hours later, wet and bedraggled, but with a fire at his heart, the night-farer came to his home and roused Kent from slumber on the studio couch.
“And where have you been?” demanded the scientist.
“She was in the house. I’ve seen her.”
“Exactly what I wished to prevent. I don’t think you’ve done yourself any good.”
“Any good,” groaned his friend. “She left me believing that I am the murderer of the unknown woman.”
“Indeed! You’ve done worse, even, than I had feared. Tell me.”
In brief outline, Sedgwick told of the moonlight interview. Kent gripped at his ear lobe, and for a time sought silently to draw clarification of ideas from it.
“Do you know,” he said at length, “I wouldn’t wonder if Blair really thought you the murderer.”
“I would,” declared Sedgwick savagely. “He knows who murdered that woman. It was his own son, whom he pretended to bury, for a blind.” And the artist proceeded to outline eagerly his newly developed idea.