“That’s an interesting theory,” said Chester Kent slowly. “A very interesting and ingenious theory. I’ll admit to you now that something of the sort occurred to my mind early in the development of the mystery, but I forsook it because of one fact that rather militates against its probability.”
“What is that?”
“The fact,” replied Kent with a slow smile, “that Wilfrid Blair was dead before his father ever learned of the tragedy of Lonesome Cove.”
[CHAPTER XVII—CHANCE SITS IN]
Suit case at his side, Chester Kent stood on the platform of the Martindale Center station, waiting for the morning train to Boston. Before him paced Sedgwick, with a face of storm.
“This is something I must do for myself,” the artist declared, with that peculiar flatness of obstinacy which goes with an assertion repeatedly made. “Not you, nor any other man, can do it for me.”
“Not you, nor any other man, should attempt it at all, now,” retorted the scientist.
“That’s the view of the pedant,” cried Sedgwick. “What do you know of love?”
“Nothing, except as a force obstructive to reason.”
“But, Chet, I must see her again,” pleaded Sedgwick; “I must—”