“Francis Sedgwick.”
“You know the man?”
“It is on his behalf that I am acting,” replied Kent.
“My informant, however, inclines to the belief that Alexander Blair is wrong: that Wilfrid Blair killed the woman and then inflicted mortal wounds upon himself. Perhaps you would better see my informant for yourself.”
“Unnecessary, thank you. Mr. Blair is not telling quite all that he knows. Nevertheless, the theory which he propounds as to his son’s assailant, is natural enough, from his point of view. Although,” added Kent thoughtfully, “it will be most unfortunate if it leads him to distrust Mrs. Blair.”
“Marjorie? Am I to infer that her good name is involved?” demanded the old man.
“Hardly her good name. Mr. Blair believes—if I correctly follow his mental processes—that Francis Sedgwick met his son on the night of the tragedy, by chance or otherwise, and that in the encounter which he believes followed, Wilfrid Blair was killed. Unfortunately, some color of motive is lent to this by the fact that Sedgwick had fallen desperately in love with Mrs. Blair.”
“Impossible! Marjorie is not the woman to permit such a thing.”
“Without blame to her, or, indeed, to either of them. She also believes, now, that Sedgwick killed her husband.”
“And—and she was interested in your friend?” asked the old scholar slowly.