A kind of snort came from Kent. “Where have my brains been!” he cried. He thrust the bit of embroidery back into his pocket. Then, with an abrupt change of tone:
“Well, is your temper in hand?”
“For the present.”
“Tell me about it, then.”
“You remember the—the picture of the face?” said Sedgwick with an effort.
“Nobody would easily forget it.”
“I’ve been doing another portrait from the sketches. It was on opaque glass, an experimental medium that I’ve worked on some. Late this afternoon I went out, leaving the glass sheet, backed against a light board, on my easel. The door was locked with a heavy spring. There’s no possible access by the window. Yet somebody came in and smashed my picture to fragments. If I can find that man, Kent, I’ll kill him!”
Kent glanced at the artist’s long strong hands. They were clenched on his knees. The fingers were bloodless.
“I believe you would,” said the scientist with conviction. “You mustn’t, you know. No luxuries, at present.”
“Don’t joke with me about this, Kent.”