“Forgive me, but that is foolish. Your mind has been led astray. Sedgwick is absolutely blameless.”
“Please,” she begged in a half whisper, “I can’t listen. I mustn’t listen. I have tried to make myself believe that he acted in self-defense. But, even so, don’t you see, it must stand forever between us?”
“Now, what cock-and-bull story has Alexander Blair told her?” Kent demanded of his mind. “How much does she know, or how little?”
The jar and forward lurch of the car before him brought him out of his reverie.
“Can I see you in Boston?” he asked hurriedly.
She shook her head. “Not now. I can see no one. And, remember, I do not even know you.”
Kent cast about rapidly in his mind, as he walked along with the car, for some one who might be a common acquaintance. He mentioned the name of a very great psychologist at Harvard. “Do you know him?” he asked.
“Yes. He is my mother’s half-brother.”
“And my valued friend,” he cried. “May I get him to bring me?” He was almost running now beside the window.
“Yes,” she assented. “If you insist. But I will hear no word of—of your friend.”