“I will, as soon as I get home. Good day.” Blair hesitated. He seemed to have difficulty in going and embarrassment in staying. He coughed and cleared his throat, looked over Kent’s head and down at his feet; and finally got himself into words.
“Kent,” he blurted, “I realize now why you won’t take my money. I can always buy brains; but I can’t buy the bigger better thing. It isn’t in the market. Thank you!” He caught the scientist’s hand in a swift hard grip, and strode off down the road.
Chester Kent went back into the house with a glow at his heart. He shouted up-stairs to Sedgwick, “Go on with your work, Frank. I want to loaf and invite my soul for an hour. Where’s your reading matter?”
“Shelf in the corner,” answered the artist. “You’ll find a few things in your line,—Darwin’s Origin of Species, Le Conte’s—”
“The devil take Darwin!” cried Kent impiously. “I want Bab Ballads, or Through the Looking-Glass, or something like that, really fit for an aspiring intellect. Never mind. I’ll forage for myself.”
Three minutes later he was stretched luxuriously on the divan, with the window-shade pulled down and the big electric chandelier glowing, immersed in the joyous nonsense of Rhyme and Reason. The wind alternately shouted profane protests at the window because it couldn’t get in, and then fell silent, waiting for an answer. In one of these lulls Kent heard footsteps outside.
He dropped his book. The footsteps approached the window. Then the gale rose again, and the loose end of a garment flapped softly against the glass. He half rose, listening. There was silence outside.
“Have I fallen into another mystery?” groaned Kent. “Is there no rest for the weary?”
The footsteps mounted the side porch. Kent awaited a knock. None came.
“Odd!” he observed to his pillow. “Few people find the outside of a door so fascinating that they stand for two minutes in a wet gale admiring it.”