"Not all wool," he announced on his return.

"Exit the army or navy officer," remarked Kent.

"Why so?"

"Because regulations require all-wool garments-and get them. What is the fabric?"

"A fairly good mixture, from the very elemental chemical test I made.

Something in the nature of a worsted batiste, I should judge, from what I could make out under the inferior magnifying-gla.s.s that they loaned me."

"Thank you, Mr. Blair. You've eliminated one troublesome hypothesis for me. I'll telephone you before three o'clock. Good day."

From the woolen manufacturer, Chester Kent went direct to the Martindale Center library, where he interviewed the librarian.

"Do you get the Agriculture Department publications?"

"Yes."

"Have you a pamphlet issued by the Bureau of Entomology, Helmund on _The Swarm Phenomenon in Lepidoptera_?"

"Yes, sir. It was inquired for only yesterday by Mr. Blair."

"Ah, yes. He's quite interested in the subject, I believe."

"It must be quite recent, then," said the librarian. "We haven't seen him here for a long time until two days ago, when he came and put in a morning, reading on insects."

"So, Mr. Alexander Blair," said Kent, addressing the last fence post on the outskirts of the town, after a thoughtful walk, "that was a fatal break on your part, that mention of Helmund. Amateurs who have wholly dropped a subject since years back don't usually know publications issued only within three months. That casual meeting with me was well carried out, and you called it chance. A very palpably manufactured chance! But why am I worth so much trouble to know? And why does Alexander Blair leave a desperately ill son to arrange an errand for me at this particular time? And is Hedgerow House, fourteen miles distant and possessing just such an electric car as a woman would use in driving round the country, perhaps the place whence came Sedgwick's sweet lady of mystery? Finally, what connection has all this with the body lying in Annalaka burying-ground?"

Eliciting no reply from the fence post, Kent returned to the Eyrie, called up Hedgerow House, and declined Blair's proposition.

Early that evening Francis Sedgwick came to the hotel. The clerk, at first negligent, p.r.i.c.ked up his ears and exhibited unmistakable signs of human interest when he heard the name; for the suspicion attaching to the artist had spread swiftly. Moreover, the caller was in a state of hardly repressed excitement.

"Mr. Kent? I'm afraid you can't see him, sir. He isn't in his room."

"Isn't he about the hotel?"

The clerk hesitated. "I ought not to tell you, sir, for it's Mr. Kent's strict orders not to be disturbed; but he's in his special room. Is it anything very important? Any new evidence, or something of that sort?"

"That is what I want Mr. Kent to decide."

"In that case I might take the responsibility. But I think I had better take you to him myself."

After the elevator had carried them to the top of its run, they mounted a flight of stairs, and walked to a far corner of the building.

"n.o.body's been in here since he took it," explained the clerk as they walked. "Turned all the furniture out. Special lock on the door. Some kind of scientific experiments, I suppose. He's very quiet about it."

Having reached the door, he discreetly tapped. No answer came. Somewhat less timidity characterized his next effort. A growl of surpa.s.sing savagery from within was his reward.

"You see, Mr. Sedgwick," said the clerk. Raising his voice he called, "Mr. Kent, I've brought-"

"Get away and go to the devil!" cried a voice from inside in fury. "What do you mean by-"

"It's I, Kent, Sedgwick. I've got to see you."

There was a silence of some seconds.

"What do you want?" asked Kent at length.

"You told me to come at once if anything turned up."

"So I did," sighed Kent. "Well, chase that infernal bell-boy to the stairs, and I'll let you in."

With a wry face the clerk retired. Kent opened the door, and his friend squeezed through into a bare room. The walls were hung and the floor was carpeted with white sheets. There was no furniture of any kind, unless a narrow mattress in one corner could be so reckoned. Beside the mattress lay a small pad and a pencil. Only on the visitor's subconscious self did these peculiarities impress themselves, such was his absorption in his own interests.

"It's happened!" he announced.

"Has it?" said Kent. "Lean up against the wall and make yourself at home. Man, you're shaking!"

"You'd shake, too," retorted the artist, his voice trembling.

"No; anger doesn't affect me that way. Wait! Now, don't tell me yet. If I'm to have a report, it must be from a sane man, not from one in a blind fury. Take time and cool down. What do you think of my room?"

"It looks like the abode of white silence. Have you turned Trappist monk?"

"Not such a bad guess. This is the retreat of my mind. I think against the blank walls."

"What's the game?" asked Sedgwick, interested in spite of himself.

"It dates back to our college days. Do you remember that queer freshman, Berwind?"

"The mind-reader? Yes. The poor chap went insane afterward."

"Yes. It was a weak mind, but a singularly receptive one. You know we used to force numbers or playing-cards upon his consciousness by merely thinking of them."

"I recollect. His method was to stand gazing at a blank wall. He said the object we were thinking of would rise before him visually against the blankness. Did you ever figure out how he managed to do it?"

"Not exactly. But his notion of keeping the mind blank for impressions has its points. If you throw off the clutch of the brain, as it were, and let it work along its own lines, it sometimes arranges and formulates ideas that you wouldn't get from it under control."

"Sort of self-hypnosis?"

"In a sense. For years I've kept a bare white room in my Washington house to do my hard thinking in. When your affair promised to become difficult for me, I rigged up this spot. And I'm trying to see things against the walls."

"Any particular kind of things?"

Kent produced the silver star from his pocket, and told of its discovery. "The stars in their courses may have fought against Sisera,"

he remarked; "but they aren't going out of their way to fight-to fight-to-to-" Kent's jaw was sagging down. His lean fingers pulled savagely at the lobe of his long-suffering ear. "The stars in their courses-in their courses-That's it!" he half whispered. "Sedgwick; _what_ was it your visitor said to you about Jupiter?"

"She didn't mention Jupiter."