“You, then.” The Star-master turned upon Kent. “What am I up against? How did you find me?”
Thrusting his hand in his pocket the scientist brought out a little patch of black cloth, with a single star skilfully embroidered on it.
“Wild blackberry has long thorns and sharp,” he said. “You left this tatter on Hawkill Cliffs.”
At the name, the man’s chin muscle throbbed with his effort to hold his teeth steady against chattering.
“At first I suspected an army officer. When I found that the cloth was below grade, the only other starred profession I could think of was astrology. As the highest class astrologer now advertising, you seemed likely to be the man. When I found, first, that you were out of town on July fifth, and, just now, by a somewhat rough experiment, that you had suffered a wound of the right wrist, I was certain.”
“What do you want?”
“A fair exchange. My name is Chester Kent.”
The Star-master’s chin worked convulsively. “The Kent that broke up the Coordinated Spiritism Circle?”
“Yes.”
“It’s ill bargaining with the devil,” observed Preston Jax grimly. “What’s the exchange?”