“Yes: and you?” queried Kent, as the other hesitated.
“I am going back to Hedgerow House,” concluded the artist obstinately.
“If I were employed to work on this case,” observed Kent dispassionately; “if it were a mere commission, undertaken on money terms, I should throw it up right here and now.” He took a long strong pull at the extension end of his ear, and whistled a bar or two of Pagliacci. “Do you know room 571 at the Eyrie?” he asked abruptly.
“No. Yes; I do, too. That’s your temple of white silence, isn’t it?”
“Correct. Humor me thus far. Walk up to the hotel. Give this card to the clerk. Get the key. Go to that room at once. Lie down on your back with your eyes open, and think for one hour by the watch. If at the end of that time, you still believe you’re right, go ahead. Will you do it?”
“Agreed. It’s a bargain. But it won’t change my mind.”
“A bargain’s a bargain. It won’t need to,” said Kent coolly. “By that time, if I have any understanding of Mr. Alexander Blair, he will have put your Lady of Mystery on the morning train which leaves for Boston by one of the other roads. If not—why, you may take your chance.”
“Tricked!” said Sedgwick. “Well, I owe you too much to go back on my agreement. But—see here, Kent. She’s going to Boston. You’re going to Boston. You can easily find out where the Blairs live. Go to her for me and find—”
“Heaven forbid!” cried Kent piously.
“Why?”