Sedgwick put a hand on his arm. “The woman with Blair?” he asked under his breath.
Kent nodded. “I rather hoped that she wouldn’t come,” he said. “Blair might better have told her—so far as he knows.”
“Then he doesn’t know all?”
“No. And perhaps she would be content with nothing else. It is her right. And she is a brave woman, is Marjorie Blair, as Jax here can testify. We have seen her under fire.”
“She is that,” confirmed the man with the twitching chin.
“This, then, is the final clear-up?” asked Sedgwick.
“Final and complete.”
“Thank God! It will be a weight off my shoulders.”
“Off many shoulders,” said Kent. “Here we are.”
Greetings among the little group, so strangely and harshly thrown together by the dice-cast of the hand of Circumstance, were brief and formal. Only Preston Jax was named by Kent, with the comment that his story would be forthcoming. The seven guests seated themselves, the Blairs at one end of the half-circle, Sedgwick and the astrologer at the other. Kent, leaning against the wall, fumbled uncertainly at his ear.