“Helmund, the Belgian.”
“Oh, yes, certainly. Go on!”
The stranger went on at some length. He appeared to be an interested rather than a learned student of the subject. As he talked, sitting on the step of his car, from which he had descended, the other studied him, his quiet but forceful voice, his severely handsome face, with its high brows, harsh nose, and chiseled outlines, from which the eyes looked forth, thoughtful, alert, yet with the gaze of a man in pain. Presently he said courteously:
“If you are going back to the hotel, may I take you along? I am Alexander Blair.”
“Thank you. I’ll be glad of a lift. My name is Chester Kent.”
“Not the Professor Kent of the Ramsay case?”
“The same. You know, Mr. Blair, I’ve always believed that you had more of a hand in Ramsay’s death than I. Now, if you wish to withdraw your offer of a lift—”
“Not at all. A man who has been so abused by the newspapers as I, can stand a little plain speaking. For all that, on my word, Professor Kent, I had no hand in sending Ramsay on that dirty business of his.”
The scientist considered him thoughtfully. “Well, I believe you,” said he shortly, and got into the machine.
“This meeting is a fortunate chance for me,” said Blair presently.