“Chance?” murmured Kent interrogatively.
The car swerved sharply, but immediately resumed the middle of the road.
“Certainly, chance,” said the motorist. “What else should it be?”
“Of course,” agreed Kent. “As you say.”
“I said fortunate,” continued the other, “because you are, I believe, the very man I want. There is an affair that has been troubling me a good deal. I haven’t been able to look into it personally, because of the serious illness of my son, who is at my place on Sundayman’s Creek. But it is in your line, being entomological, and perhaps criminal.”
“What is it?” asked Kent.
“An inexplicable destruction of our stored woolens by the clothes moth. You may perhaps know that I am president of the Kinsella Mills. We’ve been having a great deal of trouble this spring, and our superintendent believes that some enemy is introducing the pest into our warehouses. Will you take the case?”
“When?”
“Start to-night for Connecticut.”
Chester Kent’s long fingers went to the lobe on his ear. “Give me until three o’clock this afternoon to consider. Can I reach you by telephone?”