"That has a mild nutty flavor; but it doesn't excite any profound emotion in me except concern for your sanity."

"You've said that before," retorted Kent. "However, I'm not sure I shall take you with me, anyway."

"Then that isn't the coming adventure?"

"No; nothing so mild and innocuous."

"Are you asking me to run some danger? Is it to see _her_?" said Sedgwick eagerly.

"Leave her out of it for the present. There is no question of seeing her now."

The artist sighed and turned away.

"But the danger is real enough, and pretty ugly."

"Life isn't so wholly delightful to me just at present that I wouldn't risk it in a good cause."

"But this is a bigger risk than life. There's an enterprise forward which, if it fails, means the utter d.a.m.ning of reputation. What do you say?"

"Kent," said Sedgwick after a moment's thought, "I'm thirty-two years old. Ten years ago I'd have said 'yes' at the drop of the question.

Perhaps I value my life less and my good name more, than I did then.

What's the inducement?"

"The probable clearing up of the case we're on."

"Is that all the information I get?"

"I'd rather not tell you any more at present. It would only get on your nerves and unfit you for the job."

Again Sedgwick fell into thought.

"When I come to tackle it," continued Kent, "I may find that one man could do it alone. But-"

"Wait. You're going into it, are you?"

"Oh, certainly."

"With, or without me?"

"Yes."

"Why couldn't you have said so at first and saved this discussion?"

cried his host. "Of course, if you're in for it, so am I. But what about _your_ reputation?"

"It's worth a good deal to me," confessed the scientist. "And I can't deny I'm staking it all on my theory of this case. If I'm wrong-well, it's about the finis of my career."

"See here, Chet!" broke out his friend. "Do you think I'm going to let you take that kind of a chance for me?"

"It isn't for you," declared the other with irritation. "It's for myself. Can't you understand that this is _my_ case? You're only an incident in it. I'm betting my career against-well, against the devil of mischance, that I'm right. As I told you, I'm naturally timid. I don't plunge, except on a practically sure thing. So don't get any foolish notions of obligation to me. Think it over. Meantime, do you care to run over to the library? No? Well, for the rest of the evening I can be found-no; I can not be found, though I'll be there-in room 571."

"All right," said Sedgwick. "You needn't fear any further intrusion. But when is our venture?"

"To-morrow night," replied Kent, "Wilfrid Blair having officially died, as per specifications, to-day."

CHAPTER XIV-THE LONE FISHERMAN

Trout are a tradition rather than a prospect in Sundayman's Creek. Some, indeed, consider them a myth. Hope springs eternal in the human breast, however, and a fisherman, duly equipped, might have been observed testing the upper reaches of the stream on the morning of July tenth.

Although his rod and tackle were of the best, his apparel was rough, not to say scrubby. An old slouch hat was drawn down over his forehead, and staring blue gla.s.ses sheltered his eyes against the sun, which was sufficiently obscured-for most tastes-by a blanket of gray cloud, promising rain. Under arching willow, and by promising rock, his brown hackle flickered temptingly, placed by an expert hand. But, except for one sunfish who had exhibited suicidal curiosity, there was none to admire his proficiency. One individual, indeed, had witnessed it, but without admiration-an urchin angling under a bridge for bullheads.

"W'at yer gittin' with that rig?" he had inquired with the cynicism of the professional.

"Oh, some snags, and an occasional branch, and now and then a milkweed,"

returned the angler amiably.

"Well, you can't fish below the nex' bend," the urchin informed him.

"Them folks that bought Hogg's Haven has wire-fenced off the creek."

"I had just as lief get tangled in a wire fence as any other kind,"

replied the angler with cheery pessimism, whipping his fly into a shaded spot where a trout would surely have been lurking if the entire _salmo_ family hadn't departed for the Happy Fishing Grounds, several generations back, in consequence of the pernicious activities displayed by an acquisitive sportsman with an outfit of dynamite in sticks.

"Suit yerself," retorted the boy. "You won't get nothin', anyhow."

The rumble of a vehicle distracted his attention, and he looked up to observe with curiosity a carriage full of strangers pa.s.s across the bridge. The strangers were all in black. The angler had looked up, too; but immediately looked away again, and turned to continue his hopeful progress toward the bend. Not until he had rounded the curve did he pause for rest. Beyond sight of the youthful Izaak Walton, he waded out upon the bank, produced a gla.s.s, and applied it to his eyes, turning it upon the willow grove on the borders of the Blair estate. The briefest of surveys satisfied him, and he resumed his fishing and his waiting. He was waiting for the funeral service of Wilfrid Blair.

Notices in the Boston and New York papers had formally designated the burial as "Private". That invaluable aid, Lawyer Adam Bain, who seemed to have his fingers on the pulse of all the county's activities, had informed Kent that telegraphic summons had gone out to a few near relatives, and that the relatives, together with a clergyman, were expected that morning. That is why Chester Kent, a famous master of the art of fly fishing, was whipping a "dead" stream.

For a patient hour longer his questing flies explored unresponsive nooks and corners. At the end of that time he sighted a figure coming from Hedgerow House, and dodged into a covert of sumac. The gla.s.s brought out clearly the features of Alexander Blair, set, stern, and pale. Blair walked swiftly to the willow thicket where lay Captain Hogg and his unnamed victims, looked down into the raw fresh excavation, and turned away. Another man, issuing from the house, joined him. From his gestures Alexander Blair seemed to be explaining and directing. Finally both returned to the house.

"Handling the whole business himself," commented Kent. "I like his courage, anyway."

Half an hour afterward the little funeral procession moved from the house. There was no hea.r.s.e. Six men carried the coffin. They were all strangers to Kent, and their clothes gave obvious testimony of city origin. Half a dozen other men, and three women, heavily veiled, followed. Kent thrust his gla.s.s into his pocket and lifted his rod again. By the time the clergyman had begun the service Kent was close to the obstructing fence. He could hear the faint solemn murmur of the words. Then came the lowering of the casket. The onlooker marked the black and silver sumptuousness of it, and thought of the rough hemlock box that enclosed the anonymous body in Annalaka churchyard. And, as his fly met the water, he smiled a little, grim, wry smile.

It was over soon. The black-clad group drifted away. One member paused to glance with curiosity at the roughly clad angler making his way up stream. For Kent judged it wise to absent himself now, foreseeing the advent of one keener-eyed than the mourners, whose scrutiny he did not desire to tempt. Shortly Gansett Jim came to the grave. Hastily and carelessly he pitched in the earth, tramped it down, and returned.

Carriages rolled to the door of Hedgerow House, and rolled away again, carrying the mourners to their train. Not until then did Kent snug up his tackle and take the road.

No sooner had he reached the hotel and changed into dry clothes, than he made haste to the Nook, and thus addressed Sedgwick. "Now I'm your man for that tennis match."

"Kent, I don't like your looks," observed his friend, remarking the scientist's troubled eyes.

"Don't you? Where are the implements of warfare?"

"Here they are," said the other, producing rackets and b.a.l.l.s. "You look to me done up."

"Well, the great game is always something of a gamble, and being usually played for higher stakes than money, is likely to get on one's nerves."