Full Text Archive logoFull Text Archive — Free Classic E-books

Master Tales of Mystery, Volume 3 by Collected and Arranged by Francis J. Reynolds

Part 1 out of 8

Adobe PDF icon
Download this document as a .pdf
File size: 0.9 MB
What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read off-line or to print out text and read from the real printed page. Others want to carry documents around with them on their mobile phones and read while they are on the move. We have created .pdf files of all out documents to accommodate all these groups of people. We recommend that you download .pdfs onto your mobile phone when it is connected to a WiFi connection for reading off-line.

Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Josephine Paolucci and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.












The Poisoned Pen



Kennedy's suit-case was lying open on the bed, and he was literally
throwing things into it from his chiffonier, as I entered after a
hurried trip up-town from the _Star_ office in response to an urgent
message from him.

"Come, Walter," he cried, hastily stuffing in a package of clean
laundry without taking off the wrapping-paper, "I've got your suit-case
out. Pack up whatever you can in five minutes. We must take the six
o'clock train for Danbridge."

I did not wait to hear any more. The mere mention of the name of the
quaint and quiet little Connecticut town was sufficient. For Danbridge
was on everybody's lips at that time. It was the scene of the now
famous Danbridge poisoning case--a brutal case in which the pretty
little actress, Vera Lytton, had been the victim.

"I've been retained by Senator Adrian Willard," he called from his
room, as I was busy packing in mine. "The Willard family believe that
that young Dr. Dixon is the victim of a conspiracy--or at least Alma
Willard does, which comes to the same thing, and--well, the senator
called me up on long-distance and offered me anything I would name in
reason to take the case. Are you ready? Come on, then. We've simply
got to make that train."

As we settled ourselves in the smoking-compartment of the Pullman,
which for some reason or other we had to ourselves, Kennedy spoke
again for the first time since our frantic dash across the city to
catch the train.

"Now let us see, Walter," he began. "We've both read a good deal about
this case in the papers. Let's try to get our knowledge in an orderly
shape before we tackle the actual case itself."

"Ever been in Danbridge?" I asked.

"Never," he replied. "What sort of place is it?"

"Mighty interesting," I answered; "a combination of old New England
and new, of ancestors and factories, of wealth and poverty, and above
all it is interesting for its colony of New-Yorkers--what shall I call
it?--a literary-artistic-musical combination, I guess."

"Yes," he resumed. "I thought as much. Vera Lytton belonged to the
colony. A very talented girl, too--you remember her in 'The Taming of
the New Woman' last season? Well, to get back to the facts as we know
them at present.

"Here is a girl with a brilliant future on the stage discovered by her
friend, Mrs. Boncour, in convulsions--practically insensible--with a
bottle of headache-powder and a jar of ammonia on her dressing-table.
Mrs. Boncour sends the maid for the nearest doctor, who happens to be
a Dr. Waterworth. Meanwhile she tries to restore Miss Lytton, but
with no result. She smells the ammonia and then just tastes the
headache-powder, a very foolish thing to do, for by the time Dr.
Waterworth arrives he has two patients."

"No," I corrected, "only one, for Miss Lytton was dead when he
arrived, according to his latest statement."

"Very well, then--one. He arrives, Mrs. Boncour is ill, the maid knows
nothing at all about it, and Vera Lytton is dead. He, too, smells the
ammonia, tastes the headache-powder--just the merest trace--and then
he has two patients, one of them himself. We must see him, for his
experience must have been appalling. How he ever did it I
can't imagine, but he saved both himself and Mrs. Boncour from
poisoning--cyanide, the papers say, but of course we can't accept that
until we see. It seems to me, Walter, that lately the papers have made
the rule in murder cases: When in doubt, call it cyanide."

Not relishing Kennedy in the humor of expressing his real opinion
of the newspapers, I hastily turned the conversation back again by
asking, "How about the note from Dr. Dixon?"

"Ah, there is the crux of the whole case--that note from Dixon. Let
us see. Dr. Dixon is, if I am informed correctly, of a fine and
aristocratic family, though not wealthy. I believe it has been
established that while he was an interne in a city hospital he became
acquainted with Vera Lytton, after her divorce from that artist
Thurston. Then comes his removal to Danbridge and his meeting and
later his engagement with Miss Willard. On the whole, Walter, judging
from the newspaper pictures, Alma Willard is quite the equal of Vera
Lytton for looks, only of a different style of beauty. Oh, well, we
shall see. Vera decided to spend the spring and summer at Danbridge in
the bungalow of her friend, Mrs. Boncour, the novelist. That's when
things began to happen."

"Yes," I put it, "when you come to know Danbridge as I did after that
summer when you were abroad, you'll understand, too. Everybody knows
everybody else's business. It is the main occupation of a certain set,
and the per-capita output of gossip is a record that would stagger the
census bureau. Still, you can't get away from the note, Craig. There
it is, in Dixon's own handwriting, even if he does deny it: 'This will
cure your headache. Dr. Dixon.' That's a damning piece of evidence."

"Quite right," he agreed hastily; "the note was queer, though, wasn't
is? They found it crumpled up in the jar of ammonia. Oh, there are
lots of problems the newspapers have failed to see the significance
of, let alone trying to follow up."

Our first visit in Danbridge was to the prosecuting attorney, whose
office was not far from the station on the main street. Craig had
wired him, and he had kindly waited to see us, for it was evident that
Danbridge respected Senator Willard and every one connected with him.

"Would it be too much to ask just to see that note that was found in
the Boncour bungalow?" asked Craig.

The prosecutor, an energetic young man, pulled out of a document-case
a crumpled note which had been pressed flat again. On it in clear,
deep black letters were the words, just as reported:

This will cure your headache.


"How about the handwriting?" asked Kennedy.

The lawyer pulled out a number of letters. "I'm afraid they will have
to admit it," he said with reluctance, as if down in his heart he
hated to prosecute Dixon. "We have lots of these, and no handwriting
expert could successfully deny the identity of the writing."

He stowed away the letters without letting Kennedy get a hint as to
their contents. Kennedy was examining the note carefully.

"May I count on having this note for further examination, of course
always at such times and under such conditions as you agree to?"

The attorney nodded. "I am perfectly willing to do anything not
illegal to accommodate the senator," he said. "But, on the other hand,
I am here to do my duty for the state, cost whom, it may."

The Willard house was in a virtual state of siege. News-paper
reporters from Boston and New York were actually encamped at every
gate, terrible as an army, with cameras. It was with some difficulty
that we got in, even though we were expected, for some of the more
enterprising had already fooled the family by posing as officers of
the law and messengers from Dr. Dixon.

The house was a real, old colonial mansion with tall white pillars, a
door with a glittering brass knocker, which gleamed out severely at
you as you approached through a hedge of faultlessly trimmed boxwoods.

Senator, or rather former Senator, Willard met us in the library, and
a moment later his daughter Alma joined him. She was tall, like her
father, a girl of poise and self-control. Yet even the schooling of
twenty-two years in rigorous New England self-restraint could not
hide the very human pallor of her face after the sleepless nights and
nervous days since this trouble had broken on her placid existence.
Yet there was a mark of strength and determination on her face that
was fascinating. The man who would trifle with this girl, I felt, was
playing fast and loose with her very life. I thought then, and I said
to Kennedy afterward: "If this Dr. Dixon is guilty, you have no right
to hide it from that girl. Anything less than the truth will only
blacken the hideousness of the crime that has already been committed."

The senator greeted us gravely, and I could not but take it as a good
omen when, in his pride of wealth and family and tradition, he laid
bare everything to us, for the sake of Alma Willard. It was clear that
in this family there was one word that stood above all others, "Duty."

As we were about to leave after an interview barren of new facts, a
young man was announced, Mr. Halsey Post. He bowed politely to us, but
it was evident why he had called, as his eye followed Alma about the

"The son of the late Halsey Post, of Post & Vance, silver-smiths, who
have the large factory in town, which you perhaps noticed," explained
the senator. "My daughter has known him all her life. A very fine
young man."

Later, we learned that the senator had bent every effort toward
securing Halsey Post as a son-in-law, but his daughter had had views
of her own on the subject.

Post waited until Alma had withdrawn before he disclosed the real
object of his visit.

In almost a whisper, lest she should still be listening, he said,
"There is a story about town that Vera Lytton's former husband--an
artist named Thurston--was here just before her death."

Senator Willard leaned forward as if expecting to hear Dixon
immediately acquitted. None of us was prepared for the next remark.

"And the story goes on to say that he threatened to make a scene over
a wrong he says he has suffered from Dixon. I don't know anything more
about it, and I tell you only because I think you ought to know what
Danbridge is saying under its breath."

We shook off the last of the reporters who affixed themselves to us,
and for a moment Kennedy dropped in at the little bungalow to see Mrs.
Boncour. She was much better, though she had suffered much. She had
taken only a pin-head of the poison, but it had proved very nearly

"Had Miss Lytton any enemies whom you think of, people who were
jealous of her professionally or personally?" asked Craig.

"I should not even have said Dr. Dixon was an enemy," she replied

"But this Mr. Thurston," put in Kennedy quickly. "One is not usually
visited in perfect friendship by a husband who has been divorced."

She regarded him keenly for a moment. "Halsey Post told you that," she
said. "No one else knew he was here. But Halsey Post was an old friend
of both Vera and Mr. Thurston before they separated. By chance he
happened to drop in the day Mr. Thurston was here, and later in the
day I gave him a letter to forward to Mr. Thurston, which had come
after the artist left. I'm sure no one else knew the artist. He was
there the morning of the day she died, and--and--that's every bit I'm
going to tell you about him, so there. I don't know why he came or
where he went."

"That's a thing we must follow up later," remarked Kennedy as we made
our adieus. "Just now I want to get the facts in hand. The next thing
on my programme is to see this Dr. Waterworth."

We found the doctor still in bed; in fact, a wreck as the result of
his adventure. He had little to correct in the facts of the story
which had been published so far. But there were many other details of
the poisoning he was quite willing to discuss frankly.

"It was true about the jar of ammonia?" asked Kennedy.

"Yes," he answered. "It was standing on her dressing-table with the
note crumpled up in it, just as the papers said."

"And you have no idea why it was there?"

"I didn't say that. I can guess. Fumes of ammonia are one of the
antidotes for poisoning of that kind."

"But Vera Lytton could hardly have known that," objected Kennedy.

"No, of course not. But she probably did know that ammonia is good
for just that sort of faintness which she must have experienced after
taking the powder. Perhaps she thought of sal volatile, I don't know.
But most people know that ammonia in some form is good for faintness
of this sort, even if they don't know anything about cyanides and--"

"Then it was cyanide?" interrupted Craig.

"Yes," he replied slowly. It was evident that he was suffering great
physical and nervous anguish as the result of his too intimate
acquaintance with the poisons in question. "I will tell you precisely
how is was, Professor Kennedy. When I was called in to see Miss Lytton
I found her on the bed. I pried open her jaws and smelled the sweetish
odor of the cyanogen gas. I knew then what she had taken, and at the
moment she was dead. In the next room I heard some one moaning. The
maid said that it was Mrs. Boncour, and that she was deathly sick.
I ran into her room, and though she was beside herself with pain I
managed to control her, though she struggled desperately against me. I
was rushing her to the bathroom, passing through Miss Lytton's room.
'What's wrong?' I asked as I carried her along. 'I took some of that,'
she replied, pointing to the bottle, on the dressing-table.

"I put a small quantity of its crystal contents on my tongue. Then
I realized the most tragic truth of my life. I had taken one of the
deadliest poisons in the world. The odor of the released gas of
cyanogen was strong. But more than that, the metallic taste and the
horrible burning sensation told of the presence of some form of
mercury, too. In that terrible moment my brain worked with the
incredible swiftness of light. In a flash I knew that if I added malic
acid to the mercury--perchloride of mercury or corrosive sublimate--I
would have calomel or subchloride of mercury, the only thing that
would switch the poison out of my system and Mrs. Boncour's.

"Seizing her about the waist, I hurried into the dining-room. On a
sideboard was a dish of fruit. I took two apples. I made her eat one,
core and all. I ate the other. The fruit contained the malic acid
I needed to manufacture the calomel, and I made it right there in
nature's own laboratory. But there was no time to stop. I had to act
just as quickly to neutralize that cyanide, too. Remembering the
ammonia, I rushed back with Mrs. Boncour, and we inhaled the fumes.
Then I found a bottle of peroxide of hydrogen. I washed out her
stomach with it, and then my own. Then I injected some of the
peroxide into various Parts of her body. The peroxide of hydrogen
and hydrocyanic acid, you know, make oxamide, which is a harmless

"The maid put Mrs. Boncour to bed, saved. I went to my house, a wreck.
Since then I have not left this bed. With my legs paralyzed I lie
here, expecting each hour to be my last."

"Would you taste an unknown drug again to discover the nature of a
probable poison?" asked Craig.

"I don't know," he answered slowly, "but I suppose I would. In such a
case a conscientious doctor has no thought of self. He is there to do
things, and he does them, according to the best that is in him. In
spite of the fact that I haven't had one hour of unbroken sleep since
that fatal day, I suppose I would do it again."

When we were leaving, I remarked: "That is a martyr to science. Could
anything be more dramatic than his willing penalty for his devotion to

We walked along in silence. "Walter, did you notice he said not a word
of condemnation of Dixon, though the note was before his eyes? Surely
Dixon has some strong supporters in Danbridge, as well as enemies."

The next morning we continued our investigation. We found Dixon's
lawyer, Leland, in consultation with his client in the bare cell of
the county jail. Dixon proved to be a clear-eyed, clean-cut young
man. The thing that impressed me most about him, aside from the
prepossession in his favor due to the faith of Alma Willard, was the
nerve he displayed, whether guilty or innocent. Even an innocent man
might well have been staggered by the circumstantial evidence against
him and the high tide of public feeling, in spite of the support that
he was receiving. Leland, we learned, had been very active. By prompt
work at the time of the young doctor's arrest he had managed to
secure the greater part of Dr. Dixon's personal letters, though the
prosecutor secured some, the contents of which had not been disclosed.

Kennedy spent most of the day in tracing out the movements of
Thurston. Nothing that proved important was turned up and even visits
to near-by towns failed to show any sales of cyanide or sublimate
to any one not entitled to buy them. Meanwhile, in turning over the
gossip of the town, one of the newspapermen ran across the fact that
the Boncour bungalow was owned by the Posts, and that Halsey Post, as
the executor of the estate, was a more frequent visitor than the mere
collection of the rent would warrant. Mrs. Boncour maintained a stolid
silence that covered a seething internal fury when the newspaperman
in question hinted that the landlord and tenant were on exceptionally
good terms.

It was after a fruitless day of such search that we were sitting in
the reading-room of the Fairfield Hotel. Leland entered. His face was
positively white. Without a word he took us by the arm and led us
across Main Street and up a flight of stairs to his office. Then he
locked the door.

"What's the matter?" asked Kennedy.

"When I took this case," he said, "I believed down in my heart that
Dixon was innocent. I still believe it, but my faith has been rudely
shaken. I feel that you should know about what I have just found. As I
told you, we secured nearly all of Dr. Dixon's letters. I had not read
them all then. But I have been going through them to-night. Here is a
letter from Vera Lytton herself. You will notice it is dated the day
of her death."

He laid the letter before us. It was written in a curious
grayish-black ink in a woman's hand, and read:

* * * * *


Since we agreed to disagree we have at least been good friends, if no
longer lovers. I am not writing in anger to reproach you with your
new love, so soon after the old. I suppose Alma Willard is far better
suited to be your wife than is a poor little actress--rather looked
down on in this Puritan society here. But there is something I wish to
warn you about, for it concerns us all intimately.

We are in danger of an awful mix-up if we don't look out. Mr.
Thurston--I had almost said my husband, though I don't know whether
that is the truth or not--who has just come over from New York, tells
me that there is some doubt about the validity of our divorce. You
recall he was in the South at the time I sued him, and the papers
were served on him in Georgia. He now says the proof of service was
fraudulent and that he can set aside the divorce. In that case you
might figure in a suit for alienating my affections.

I do not write this with ill will, but simply to let you know how
things stand. If we had married, I suppose I would be guilty of
bigamy. At any rate, if he were disposed he could make a terrible

Oh, Harris, can't you settle with him if he asks anything? Don't
forget so soon that we once thought we were going to be the happiest
of mortals--at least I did. Don't desert me, or the very earth will
cry out against you. I am frantic and hardly know what I am writing.
My head aches, but it is my heart that is breaking. Harris, I am yours
still, down in my heart, but not to be cast off like an old suit for a
new one. You know the old saying about a woman scorned. I beg you not
to go back on

Your poor little deserted


* * * * *

As we finished reading, Leland exclaimed, "That never must come before
the jury."

Kennedy was examining the letter carefully. "Strange," he muttered.
"See how it was folded. It was written on the wrong side of the sheet,
or rather folded up with the writing outside. Where have these letters

"Part of the time in my safe, part of the time this afternoon on my
desk by the window."

"The office was locked, I suppose?" asked Kennedy. "There was no way
to slip this letter in among the others since you obtained them?"

"None. The office has been locked, and there is no evidence of any one
having entered or disturbed a thing."

He was hastily running over the pile of letters as if looking to see
whether they were all there. Suddenly he stopped.

"Yes," he exclaimed excitedly, "one of them _is_ gone." Nervously he
fumbled through them again. "One is gone," he repeated, looking at us,

"What was is about?" asked Craig.

"It was a note from an artist, Thurston, who gave the address of Mrs.
Boncour's bungalow--ah, I see you have heard of him. He asked Dixon's
recommendation of a certain patent headache medicine. I thought it
possibly evidential, and I asked Dixon about it. He explained it by
saying that he did not have a copy of his reply, but as near as he
could recall, he wrote that the compound would not cure a headache
except at the expense of reducing heart action dangerously. He says he
sent no prescription. Indeed, he thought it a scheme to extract advice
without incurring the charge for an office call and answered it only
because he thought Vera had become reconciled to Thurston again. I
can't find that letter of Thurston's. It is gone."

We looked at each other in amazement.

"Why, if Dixon contemplated anything against Miss Lytton, should he
preserve this letter from her?" mused Kennedy. "Why didn't he destroy

"That's what puzzles me," remarked Leland. "Do you suppose some one
has broken in and substituted this Lytton letter for the Thurston

Kennedy was scrutinizing the letter, saying nothing. "I may keep it?"
he asked at length. Leland was quite willing and even undertook to
obtain some specimens of the writing of Vera Lytton. With these and
the letter Kennedy was working far into the night and long after I had
passed into a land troubled with many wild dreams of deadly poisons
and secret intrigues of artists.

The next morning a message from our old friend First Deputy O'Connor
in New York told briefly of locating the rooms of an artist named
Thurston in one of the co-operative studio apartments. Thurston
himself had not been there for several days and was reported to have
gone to Maine to sketch. He had had a number of debts, but before he
left they had all been paid--strange to say, by a notorious firm of
shyster lawyers, Kerr & Kimmel. Kennedy wired back to find out the
facts from Kerr & Kimmel and to locate Thurston at any cost.

Even the discovery of the new letter did not shake the wonderful
self-possession of Dr. Dixon. He denied ever having received it and
repeated his story of a letter from Thurston to which he had replied
by sending an answer, care of Mrs. Boncour, as requested. He insisted
that the engagement between Miss Lytton and himself had been broken
before the announcement of his engagement with Miss Willard. As for
Thurston, he said the man was little more than a name to him. He had
known perfectly all the circumstances of the divorce, but had had no
dealings with Thurston and no fear of him. Again and again he denied
ever receiving the letter from Vera Lytton.

Kennedy did not tell the Willards of the new letter. The strain had
begun to tell on Alma, and her father had had her quietly taken to
a farm of his up in the country. To escape the curious eyes of
reporters, Halsey Post had driven up one night in his closed car. She
had entered it quickly with her father, and the journey had been made
in the car, while Halsey Post had quietly dropped oft on the outskirts
of the town, where another car was waiting to take him back. It was
evident that the Willard family relied implicitly on Halsey, and his
assistance to them was most considerate. While he never forced himself
forward, he kept in close touch with the progress of the case, and now
that Alma was away his watchfulness increased proportionately, and
twice a day he wrote a long report which was sent to her.

Kennedy was now bending every effort to locate the missing artist.
When he left Danbridge, he seemed to have dropped out of sight
completely. However, with O'Connor's aid, the police of all New
England were on the lookout.

The Thurstons had been friends of Halsey's before Vera Lytton had ever
met Dr. Dixon, we discovered from the Danbridge gossips, and I, at
least, jumped to the conclusion that Halsey was shielding the artist,
perhaps through a sense of friendship when he found that Kennedy was
interested in Thurston's movement. I must say I rather liked Halsey,
for he seemed very thoughtful of the Willards, and was never too
busy to give an hour or so to any commission they wished carried out
without publicity.

Two days passed with not a word from Thurston. Kennedy was obviously
getting impatient. One day a rumor was received that he was in Bar
Harbor; the next it was a report from Nova Scotia. At last, however,
came the welcome news that he had been located in New Hampshire,
arrested, and might be expected the next day.

At once Kennedy became all energy. He arranged for a secret conference
in Senator Willard's house, the moment the artist was to arrive. The
senator and his daughter made a flying trip back to town. Nothing was
said to any one about Thurston, but Kennedy quietly arranged with the
district attorney to be present with the note and the jar of ammonia
properly safeguarded. Leland of course came, although his client could
not. Halsey Post seemed only too glad to be with Miss Willard, though
he seemed to have lost interest in the case as soon as the Willards
returned to look after it themselves. Mrs. Boncour was well enough
to attend, and even Dr. Waterworth insisted on coming in a private
ambulance which drove over from a near-by city especially for him. The
time was fixed just before the arrival of the train that was to bring

It was an anxious gathering of friends and foes of Dr. Dixon who sat
impatiently waiting for Kennedy to begin this momentous exposition
that was to establish the guilt or innocence of the calm young
physician who sat impassively in the jail not half a mile from the
room where his life and death were being debated.

"In many respects this is the most remarkable case that it has ever
been my lot to handle," began Kennedy. "Never before have I felt
so keenly my sense of responsibility. Therefore, though this is a
somewhat irregular proceeding, let me begin by setting forth the facts
as I see them.

"First, let us consider the dead woman. The question that arises here
is, Was she murdered or did she commit suicide? I think you will
discover the answer as I proceed. Miss Lytton, as you know, was, two
years ago, Mrs. Burgess Thurston. The Thurstons had temperament, and
temperament is quite often the highway to the divorce court. It was
so in this case. Mrs. Thurston discovered that her husband was paying
much attention to other women. She sued for divorce in New York, and
he accepted service in the South, where he happened to be. At least it
was so testified by Mrs. Thurston's lawyer.

"Now here comes the remarkable feature of the case. The law firm of
Kerr & Kimmel, I find, not long ago began to investigate the legality
of this divorce. Before a notary Thurston made an affidavit that he
had never been served by the lawyer for Miss Lytton, as she was now
known. Her lawyer is dead, but his representative in the South who
served the papers is alive. He was brought to New York and asserted
squarely that he had served the papers properly.

"Here is where the shrewdness of Mose Kimmel, the shyster lawyer, came
in. He arranged to have the Southern attorney identify the man he had
served the paper on. For this purpose he was engaged in conversation
with one of his own clerks when the lawyer was due to appear. Kimmel
appeared to act confused, as if he had been caught napping. The
Southern lawyer, who had seen Thurston only once, fell squarely into
the trap and identified the clerk as Thurston. There were plenty
of witnesses to it, and it was point number two for the great Mose
Kimmel. Papers were drawn up to set aside the divorce decree.

"In the meantime, Miss Lytton, or Mrs. Thurston, had become acquainted
with a young doctor in a New York hospital, and had become engaged to
him. It matters not that the engagement was later broken. The fact
remains that if the divorce were set aside an action would lie against
Dr. Dixon for alienating Mrs. Thurston's affections, and a grave
scandal would result. I need not add that in this quiet little town of
Danbridge the most could be made of such a suit."

Kennedy was unfolding a piece of paper. As he laid it down, Leland,
who was sitting next to me, exclaimed under his breath:

"My God, he's going to let the prosecutor know about that letter.
Can't you stop him?"

It was too late. Kennedy had already begun to read Vera's letter.
It was damning to Dixon, added to the other note found in the

When he had finished reading, you could almost hear the throbbing in
the room. A scowl overspread Senator Willard's features. Alma Willard
was pale and staring wildly at Kennedy. Halsey Post, even solicitous
for her, handed her a glass of water from the table. Dr. Waterworth
had forgotten his pain in his intense attention, and Mrs. Boncour
seemed stunned with astonishment. The prosecuting attorney was eagerly
taking notes.

"In some way," pursued Kennedy in an even voice, "this letter was
either overlooked in the original correspondence of Dr. Dixon or it
was added to it later. I shall come back to that presently. My next
point is that Dr. Dixon says he received a letter from Thurston on the
day the artist visited the Boncour bungalow. It asked about a certain
headache compound, and his reply was brief and, as nearly as I can
find out, read, 'This compound will not cure your headache except at
the expense of reducing heart action dangerously.'

"Next comes the tragedy. On the evening of the day that Thurston left,
after presumably telling Miss Lytton about what Kerr & Kimmel had
discovered, Miss Lytton is found dying with a bottle containing
cyanide and sublimate beside her. You are all familiar with the
circumstances and with the note discovered in the jar of ammonia. Now,
if the prosecutor will be so kind as to let me see that note--thank
you, sir. This is the identical note. You have all heard the various
theories of the jar and have read the note. Here it is in plain, cold
black and white--in Dr. Dixon's own handwriting, as you know, and
read: 'This will cure your headache. Dr. Dixon.'"

Alma Willard seemed as one paralyzed. Was Kennedy, who had been
engaged by her father to defend her fiance, about to convict him?

"Before we draw the final conclusion," continued Kennedy gravely,
"there are one or two points I wish to elaborate. Walter, will you
open that door into the main hall?"

I did so, and two policemen stepped in with a prisoner. It was
Thurston, but changed almost beyond recognition. His clothes were
worn, his beard shaved off, and he had a generally hunted appearance.

Thurston was visibly nervous. Apparently he had heard all that Kennedy
had said and intended he should hear, for as he entered he almost
broke away from the police officers in his eagerness to speak.

"Before God," he cried dramatically, "I am as innocent as you are of
this crime, Professor Kennedy."

"Are you prepared to swear before _me_." almost shouted Kennedy, his
eyes blazing, "that you were never served properly by your wife's
lawyers in that suit?"

The man cringed back as if a stinging blow had been delivered between
his eyes. As he met Craig's fixed glare he knew there was no hope.
Slowly, as if the words were being wrung from him syllable by
syllable, he said in a muffled voice:

"No, I perjured myself. I was served in that suit. But--"

"And you swore falsely before Kimmel that you were not?" persisted

"Yes," he murmured. "But--"

"And you are prepared now to make another affidavit to that effect?"

"Yes," he replied. "If--"

"No buts or ifs, Thurston," cried Kennedy sarcastically. 'What did you
make that affidavit for? What is _your_ story?"

"Kimmel sent for me. I did not go to him. He offered to pay my debts
if I would swear to such a statement. I did not ask why or for whom. I
swore to it and gave him a list of my creditors. I waited until they
were paid. Then my conscience"--I could not help revolting at the
thought of conscience in such a wretch, and the word itself seemed to
stick in his throat as he went on and saw how feeble an impression he
was making on us--"my conscience began to trouble me. I determined to
see Vera, tell her all, and find out whether it was she who wanted
this statement. I saw her. When at last I told her, she scorned me. I
can confirm that, for as I left a man entered. I now knew how grossly
I had sinned, in listening to Mose Kimmel. I fled. I disappeared
in Maine. I travelled. Every day my money grew less. At last I was
overtaken, captured, and brought back here."

He stopped and sank wretchedly down in a chair and covered his face
with his hands.

"A likely story," muttered Leland in my ear.

Kennedy was working quickly. Motioning the officers to be seated by
Thurston, he uncovered a jar which he had placed on the table. The
color had now appeared in Alma's cheeks, as if hope had again sprung
in her heart, and I fancied that Halsey Post saw his claim on her
favor declining correspondingly.

"I want you to examine the letters in this case with me," continued
Kennedy. "Take the letter which I read from Miss Lytton, which was
found following the strange disappearance of the note from Thurston."

He dipped a pen into a little bottle, and wrote on a piece of paper:

* * * * *

What is your opinion about Cross's Headache Cure? Would you recommend
it for a nervous headache?

Burgess Thurston,

c/o Mrs. S. Boncour.

* * * * *

Craig held up the writing so that we could all see that he had written
what Dixon declared Thurston wrote in the note that had disappeared.
Then he dipped another pen into a second bottle, and for some time he
scrawled on another sheet of paper. He held it up, but it was still
perfectly blank.

"Now," he added, "I am going to give a little demonstration which I
expect to be successful only in a measure. Here in the open sunshine
by this window I am going to place these two sheets of paper side by
side. It will take longer than I care to wait to make my demonstration
complete, but I can do enough to convince you."

For a quarter of an hour we sat in silence, wondering what he would do
next. At last he beckoned us over to the window. As we approached he
said, "On sheet number one I have written with quinoline; on sheet
number two I wrote with a solution of nitrate of silver."

We bent over. The writing signed "Thurston" on sheet number one
was faint, almost imperceptible, but on paper number two, in black
letters, appeared what Kennedy had written: "Dear Harris: Since we
agreed to disagree we have at least been good friends."

"It is like the start of the substituted letter, and the other is like
the missing note," gasped Leland in a daze.

"Yes," said Kennedy quickly. "Leland, no one entered your office. No
one stole the Thurston note. No one substituted the Lytton letter.
According to your own story, you took them out of the safe and left
them in the sunlight all day. The process that had been started
earlier in ordinary light, slowly, was now quickly completed. In other
words, there was writing which would soon fade away on one side of the
paper and writing which was invisible but would soon appear on the

"For instance, quinoline rapidly disappears in sunlight. Starch with a
slight trace of iodine writes a light blue, which disappears in air.
It was something like that used in the Thurston letter. Then, too,
silver nitrate dissolved in ammonia gradually turns black as it is
acted on by light and air. Or magenta treated with a bleaching-agent
in just sufficient quantity to decolorise it is invisible when used
for writing. But the original color reappears as the oxygen of the air
acts upon the pigment. I haven't a doubt but that my analyses of the
inks are correct and on one side quinoline was used and on the other
nitrate of silver. This explains the inexplicable disappearance of
evidence incriminating one person, Thurston, and the sudden appearance
of evidence incriminating another, Dr. Dixon. Sympathetic ink also
accounts for the curious circumstance that the Lytton letter was
folded up with the writing apparently outside. It was outside and
unseen until the sunlight brought it out and destroyed the other,
inside, writing--a chance, I suspect, that was intended for the police
to see after it was completed, not for the defence to witness as it
was taking place."

We looked at each other aghast. Thurston was nervously opening and
shutting his lips and moistening them as if he wanted to say something
but could not find the words.

"Lastly," went on Craig, utterly regardless of Thurston's frantic
efforts to speak, "we come to the note that was discovered so queerly
crumpled up in the jar of ammonia on Vera Lytton's dressing-table. I
have here a cylindrical glass jar in which I place some sal-ammoniac
and quicklime. I will wet it and heat it a little. That produces the
pungent gas of ammonia.

"On one side of this third piece of paper I myself write with this
mercurous nitrate solution. You see, I leave no mark on the paper as
I write. I fold it up and drop it into the jar--and in a few seconds
withdraw it. Here is a very quick way of producing something like the
slow result of sunlight with silver nitrate. The fumes of ammonia have
formed the precipitate of black, mercurous nitrate, a very distinct
black writing which is almost indelible. That is what is technically
called invisible rather than sympathetic ink."

We leaned over to read what he had written. It was the same as the
note incriminating Dixon:

* * * * *

This will cure your headache.

Dr. Dixon.

* * * * *

A servant entered with a telegram from New York. Scarcely stopping in
his exposure, Kennedy tore it open, read it hastily, stuffed it into
his pocket, and went on.

"Here in this fourth bottle I have an acid solution of iron chloride,
diluted until the writing is invisible when dry," he hurried on. "I
will just make a few scratches on this fourth sheet of paper--so. It
leaves no mark. But it has the remarkable property of becoming red in
vapor of sulpho-cyanide. Here is a long-necked flask of the gas, made
by sulphuric acid acting on potassium sulpho-cyanide. Keep back, Dr.
Waterworth, for it would be very dangerous for you to get even a whiff
of this in your condition. Ah! See--the scratches I made on the paper
are red."

Then hardly giving us more than a moment to let the fact impress
itself on our minds, he seized the piece of paper and dashed it into
the jar of ammonia. When he withdrew it, it was just a plain sheet
of white paper again. The red marks which the gas in the flask had
brought out of nothingness had been effaced by the ammonia. They had
gone and left no trace.

"In this way I can alternately make the marks appear and disappear by
using the sulpho-cyanide and the ammonia. Whoever wrote this note
with Dr. Dixon's name on it must have had the doctor's reply to
the Thurston letter containing the words, 'This will not cure your
headache.' He carefully traced the words, holding the genuine note up
to the light with a piece of paper over it, leaving out the word 'not'
and using only such words as he needed. This note was then destroyed.

"But he forgot that after he had brought out the red writing by the
use of the sulpho-cyanide, and though he could count on Vera Lytton's
placing the note in the jar of ammonia and hence obliterating the
writing, while at the same time the invisible writing in the mercurous
nitrate involving Dr. Dixon's name would he brought out by the ammonia
indelibly on the other side of the note--he forgot"--Kennedy was now
speaking eagerly and loudly--"that the sulpho-cyanide vapors could
always be made to bring back to accuse him the words that the ammonia
had blotted out."

Before the prosecutor could interfere, Kennedy had picked up the note
found in the ammonia-jar beside the dying girl and had jammed the
state's evidence into the long-necked flask of sulpho-cyanide vapor.

"Don't fear," he said, trying to pacify the now furious prosecutor,
"it will do nothing to the Dixon writing. That is permanent now, even
if it is only a tracing."

When he withdrew the note, there was writing on both sides, the black
of the original note and something in red on the other side.

We crowded around, and Craig read it with as much interest as any of

"Before taking the headache-powder, be sure to place the contents of
this paper in a jar with a little warm water."

"Hum," commented Craig, "this was apparently written on the outside
wrapper of a paper folded about some sal-ammoniac and quicklime. It
goes on:

* * * * *

"'Just drop the whole thing in, _paper and all_. Then if you feel a
faintness from the medicine the ammonia will quickly restore you. One
spoonful of the headache-powder swallowed quickly is enough.'"

* * * * *

No name was signed to the directions, but they were plainly written,
and "_paper and all_" was underscored heavily.

Craig pulled out some letters. "I have here specimens of writing of
many persons connected with this case, but I can see at a glance which
one corresponds to the writing on this red death-warrant by an
almost inhuman fiend. I shall, however, leave that part of it to the
handwriting experts to determine at the trial. Thurston, who was the
man whom you saw enter the Boncour bungalow as you left--the constant

Thurston had not yet regained his self-control, but with trembling
forefinger he turned and pointed to Halsey Post.

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen," cried Kennedy as he slapped the telegram
that had just come from New York down on the table decisively, "yes,
the real client of Kerr & Kimmel, who bent Thurston to his purposes,
was Halsey Post, once secret lover of Vera Lytton till threatened by
scandal in Danbridge--Halsey Post, graduate in technology, student
of sympathetic inks, forger of the Vera Lytton letter and the other
notes, and dealer in cyanides in the silver-smithing business,
fortune-hunter for the Willard millions with which to recoup the Post
& Vance losses, and hence rival of Dr. Dixon for the love of Alma
Willard. That is the man who wielded the poisoned pen. Dr. Dixon is



"I won't deny that I had some expectations from the old man myself."

Kennedy's client was speaking in a low, full-chested, vibrating voice,
with some emotion, so low that I had entered the room without being
aware that any one was there until it was too late to retreat.

"As his physician for over twelve years," the man pursued, "I
certainly had been led to hope to be remembered in his will. But,
Professor Kennedy, I can't put it too strongly when I say that there
is no selfish motive in my coming to you about the case. There is
something wrong--depend on that."

Craig had glanced up at me and, as I hesitated, I could see in an
instant that the speaker was a practitioner of a type that is rapidly
passing away, the old-fashioned family doctor.

"Dr. Burnham, I should like to have you know Mr. Jameson," introduced
Craig. "You can talk as freely before him as you have to me alone. We
always work together."

I shook hands with the visitor.

"The doctor has succeeded in interesting me greatly in a case which
has some unique features," Kennedy explained. "It has to do with
Stephen Haswell, the eccentric old millionaire of Brooklyn. Have you
ever heard of him?"

"Yes, indeed," I replied, recalling an occasional article which had
appeared in the newspapers regarding a dusty and dirty old house in
that part of the Heights in Brooklyn whence all that is fashionable
had not yet taken flight, a house of mystery, yet not more mysterious
than its owner in his secretive comings and goings in the affairs of
men of a generation beyond his time. Further than the facts that he
was reputed to be very wealthy and led, in the heart of a great city,
what was as nearly like the life of a hermit as possible, I knew
little or nothing, "What has he been doing now?" I asked.

"About a week ago," repeated the doctor, in answer to a nod of
encouragement from Kennedy, "I was summoned in the middle of the night
to attend Mr. Haswell, who, as I have been telling Professor Kennedy,
had been a patient of mine for over twelve years. He had been suddenly
stricken with total blindness. Since then he appears to be failing
fast, that is, he appeared so the last time I saw him, a few days ago,
after I had been superseded by a younger man. It is a curious case and
I have thought about it a great deal. But I didn't like to speak to
the authorities; there wasn't enough to warrant that, and I should
have been laughed out of court for my pains. The more I have thought
about it, however, the more I have felt it my duty to say something
to somebody, and so, having heard of Professor Kennedy, I decided to
consult him. The fact of the matter is, I very much fear that there
are circumstances which will bear sharp looking into, perhaps a scheme
to get control of the old man's fortune."

The doctor paused, and Craig inclined his head, as much as to signify
his appreciation of the delicate position in which Burnham stood in
the case. Before the doctor could proceed further, Kennedy handed me a
letter which had been lying before him on the table. It had evidently
been torn into small pieces and then carefully pasted together.

The superscription gave a small town in Ohio and a date about a
fortnight previous.

* * * * *

Dear Father [it read]: I hope you will pardon me for writing, but I
cannot let the occasion of your seventy-fifth birthday pass without a
word of affection and congratulation. I am alive and well--Time has
dealt leniently with me in that respect, if not in money matters. I
do not say this in the hope of reconciling you to me. I know that is
impossible after all these cruel years. But I do wish that I could see
you again. Remember, I am your only child and even if you still think
I have been a foolish one, please let me come to see you once before
it is too late. We are constantly traveling from place to place, but
shall be here for a few days.

Your loving daughter,


* * * * *

"Some fourteen or fifteen years ago," explained the doctor as I looked
up from reading the note, "Mr. Haswell's only daughter eloped with an
artist named Martin. He had been engaged to paint a portrait of the
late Mrs. Haswell from a photograph. It was the first time that
Grace Haswell had ever been able to find expression for the artistic
yearning which had always been repressed by the cold, practical sense
of her father. She remembered her mother perfectly since the sad
bereavement of her girlhood and naturally she watched and helped the
artist eagerly. The result was a portrait which might well have been
painted from the subject herself rather than from a cold photograph.

"Haswell saw the growing intimacy of his daughter and the artist. His
bent of mind was solely toward money and material things, and he at
once conceived a bitter and unreasoning hatred for Martin, who, he
believed, had 'schemed' to capture his daughter and an easy living.
Art was as foreign to his nature as possible. Nevertheless they went
ahead and married, and, well, it resulted in the old man disinheriting
the girl. The young couple disappeared bravely to make their way by
their chosen profession and, as far as I know, have never been heard
from since until now. Haswell made a new will and I have always
understood that practically all of his fortune is to be devoted to
founding the technology department in a projected university of

"You have never seen this Mrs. Martin or her husband?" asked Kennedy.

"No, never. But in some way she must have learned that I had some
influence with her father, for she wrote to me not long ago, enclosing
a note for him and asking me to intercede for her. I did so. I took
the letter to him as diplomatically as I could. The old man flew into
a towering rage, refused even to look at the letter, tore it up into
bits, and ordered me never to mention the subject to him again. That
is her note, which I saved. However, it is the sequel about which I
wish your help."

The physician folded up the patched letter carefully before he
continued. "Mr. Haswell, as you perhaps know, has for many years
been a prominent figure in various curious speculations or rather in
loaning money to many curious speculators. It is not necessary to go
into the different schemes which he has helped to finance. Even though
most of them have been unknown to the public they have certainly given
him such a reputation that he is much sought after by inventors.

"Not long ago Haswell became interested in the work of an obscure
chemist over in Brooklyn, Morgan Prescott. Prescott claims, as I
understand, to be able to transmute copper into gold. Whatever you
think of it offhand, you should visit his laboratory yourselves,
gentlemen. I am told it is wonderful, though I have never seen it
and can't explain it. I have met Prescott several times while he was
trying to persuade Mr. Haswell to back him in his scheme, but he was
never disposed to talk to me, for I had no money to invest. So far as
I know about it the thing sounds scientific and plausible enough. I
leave you to judge of that. It is only an incident in my story and I
will pass over it quickly. Prescott, then, believes that the elements
are merely progressive variations of an original substance or base
called 'protyle,' from which everything is derived. But this fellow
Prescott goes much further than any of the former theorists. He does
not stop with matter. He believes that he has the secret of life also,
that he can make the transition from the inorganic to the organic,
from inert matter to living protoplasm, and thence from living
protoplasm to mind and what we call soul, whatever that may be."

"And here is where the weird and uncanny part of it comes in,"
commented Craig, turning from the doctor to me to call my attention
particularly to what was about to follow.

"Having arrived at the point where he asserts that he can create and
destroy matter, life, and mind," continued the doctor, as if himself
fascinated by the idea, "Prescott very naturally does not have to
go far before he also claims a control over telepathy and even a
communication with the dead. He even calls the messages which he
receives by a word which he has coined himself, 'telepagrams.' Thus
he says he has unified the physical, the physiological, and the
psychical--a system of absolute scientific monism."

The doctor paused again, then resumed. "One afternoon, about a week
ago, apparently, as far as I am able to piece together the story,
Prescott was demonstrating his marvellous discovery of the unity of
nature. Suddenly he faced Mr. Haswell.

"'Shall I tell you a fact, sir, about yourself?' he asked quickly.
'The truth as I see it by means of my wonderful invention? If it
is the truth, will you believe in me? Will you put money into my
invention? Will you share in becoming fabulously rich?"

"Haswell made some noncommittal answer. But Prescott seemed to look
into the machine through a very thick plate-glass window, with Haswell
placed directly before it. He gave a cry. 'Mr. Haswell,' he exclaimed,
'I regret to tell you what I see. You have disinherited your daughter;
she has passed out of your life and at the present moment you do not
know where she is.'

"'That's true,' replied the old man bitterly, 'and more than that I
don't care. Is that all you see? That's nothing new.'

"'No, unfortunately, that is not all I see. Can you bear something
further? I think you ought to know it. I have here a most mysterious

"'Yes. What is it? Is she dead?'

"'No, it is not about her. It is about yourself. To-night at midnight
or perhaps a little later,' repeated Prescott solemnly, 'you will lose
your sight as a punishment for your action.'

"'Pouf!' exclaimed the old man in a dudgeon, 'if that is all your
invention can tell me, good-bye. You told me you were able to make
gold. Instead, you make foolish prophecies. I'll put no money into
such tomfoolery. I'm a practical man,' and with that he stamped out of
the laboratory.

"Well, that night, about one o'clock, in the silence of the lonely old
house, the aged caretaker, Jane, whom he had hired after he banished
his daughter from his life, heard a wild shout of 'Help! Help!'
Haswell, alone in his room on the second floor, was groping about in
the dark.

"'Jane,' he ordered, 'a light--a light.'

"'I have lighted the gas, Mr. Haswell,' she cried.

"A groan followed. He had himself found a match, had struck it, had
even burnt his fingers with it, yet he saw nothing.

"The blow had fallen. At almost the very hour which Prescott, by means
of his weird telepagram, had predicted, old Haswell was stricken.

"'I'm blind,' he gasped. 'Send for Dr. Burnham.'"

"I went to him immediately when the maid roused me, but there was
nothing I could do except prescribe perfect rest for his eyes and
keeping in a dark room in the hope that his sight might be restored as
suddenly and miraculously as it had been taken away.

"The next morning, with his own hand, trembling and scrawling in his
blindness, he wrote the following on a piece of paper:

* * * * *

"MRS. GRACE MARTIN--Information wanted about the present whereabouts
of Mrs. Grace Martin, formerly Grace Haswell of Brooklyn.


--Pierrepont St., Brooklyn.

* * * * *

"This advertisement he caused to be placed in all the New York papers
and to be wired to the leading Western papers. Haswell himself was a
changed man after his experience. He spoke bitterly of Prescott, yet
his attitude toward his daughter was completely reversed. Whether he
admitted to himself a belief in the prediction of the inventor, I do
not know. Certainly he scouted such an idea in telling me about it.

"A day or two after the advertisements appeared a telegram came to the
old man from a little town in Indiana. It read simply: 'Dear Father:
Am starting for Brooklyn to-day. Grace."

"The upshot was that Grace Haswell, or rather Grace Martin, appeared
the next day, forgave and was forgiven with much weeping, although the
old man still refused resolutely to be reconciled with and receive her
husband. Mrs. Martin started in to clean up the old house. A vacuum
cleaner sucked a ton or two of dust from it. Everything was
changed. Jane grumbled a great deal, but there was no doubt a great
improvement. Meals were served regularly. The old man was taken care
of as never before. Nothing was too good for him. Everywhere the touch
of a woman was evident in the house. The change was complete. It even
extended to me. Some friend had told her of an eye and ear specialist,
a Dr. Scott, who was engaged. Since then, I understand, a new will
has been made, much to the chagrin of the trustees of the projected
school. Of course I am cut out of the new will, and that with the
knowledge at least of the woman who once appealed to me, but it does
not influence me in coming to you."

"But what has happened since to arouse suspicion?" asked Kennedy,
watching the doctor furtively.

"Why, the fact is that, in spite of all this added care, the old man
is failing more rapidly than ever. He never goes out except attended
and not much even then. The other day I happened to meet Jane on the
street. The faithful old soul poured forth a long story about his
growing dependence on others and ended by mentioning a curious red
discoloration that seems to have broken out over his face and hands.
More from the way she said it than from what she said I gained the
impression that something was going on which should be looked into."

"Then you perhaps think that Prescott and Mrs. Martin are in some way
connected in this case?" I hazarded.

I had scarcely framed the question before he replied in an emphatic
negative. "On the contrary, it seems to me that if they know each other
at all it is with hostility. With the exception of the first stroke of
blindness"--here he lowered his voice earnestly--"practically every
misfortune that has overtaken Mr. Haswell has been since the advent of
this new Dr. Scott. Mind, I do not wish even to breathe that Mrs. Martin
has done anything except what a daughter should do. I think she has
shown herself a model of forgiveness and devotion. Nevertheless the turn
of events under the new treatment has been so strange that almost it
makes one believe that there might be something occult about it--or
wrong with the new doctor."

"Would it be possible, do you think, for us to see Mr. Haswell?" asked
Kennedy, when Dr. Burnham had come to a full stop after pouring forth
his suspicions. "I should like to see this Dr. Scott. But first I
should like to get into the old house without exciting hostility."

The doctor was thoughtful. "You'll have to arrange that yourself," he
answered. "Can't you think up a scheme? For instance, go to him with
a proposal like the old schemes he used to finance. He is very much
interested in electrical inventions. He made his money by speculation
in telegraphs and telephones in the early days when they were more or
less dreams. I should think a wireless system of television might at
least interest him and furnish an excuse for getting in, although I am
told his daughter discourages all tangible investment in the schemes
that used to interest his active mind."

"An excellent idea," exclaimed Kennedy. "It is worth trying anyway.
It is still early. Suppose we ride over to Brooklyn with you. You can
direct us to the house and we'll try to see him."

It was still light when we mounted the high steps of the house of
mystery across the bridge. Mrs. Martin, who met us in the parlor,
proved to be a stunning looking woman with brown hair and beautiful
dark eyes. As far as we could see the old house plainly showed the
change. The furniture and ornaments were of a period long past, but
everything was scrupulously neat. Hanging over the old marble mantel
was a painting which quite evidently was that of the long since
deceased Mrs. Haswell, the mother of Grace. In spite of the hideous
style of dress of the period after the war, she had evidently been a
very beautiful woman with large masses of light chestnut hair and
blue eyes which the painter had succeeded in catching with almost
life-likeness for a portrait.

It took only a few minutes for Kennedy, in his most engaging and
plausible manner, to state the hypothetical reason of our call. Though
it was perfectly self-evident from the start that Mrs. Martin would
throw cold water on anything requiring an outlay of money Craig
accomplished his full purpose of securing an interview with Mr.
Haswell. The invalid lay propped up in bed, and as we entered he heard
us and turned his sightless eyes in our direction almost as if he saw.

Kennedy had hardly begun to repeat and elaborate the story which he
had already told regarding his mythical friend who had at last a
commercial wireless "televue," as he called it on the spur of the
moment, when Jane, the aged caretaker, announced Dr. Scott. The
new doctor was a youthfully dressed man, clean-shaven, but with an
undefinable air of being much older than his smooth face led one to
suppose. As he had a large practice, he said, he would beg our pardon
for interrupting but would not take long.

It needed no great, powers of observation to see that the old man
placed great reliance on his new doctor and that the visit partook of
a social as well as a professional nature. Although they talked low
we could catch now and then a word or phrase. Dr. Scott bent down and
examined the eyes of his patient casually. It was difficult to believe
that they saw nothing, so bright was the blue of the iris.

"Perfect rest for the present," the doctor directed, talking more to
Mrs. Martin than to the old man. "Perfect rest, and then when his
health is good, we shall see what can be done with that cataract."

He was about to leave, when the old man reached up and restrained him,
taking hold of the doctor's wrist tightly, as if to pull him nearer in
order to whisper to him without being overheard. Kennedy was sitting
in a chair near the head of the bed, some feet away, as the doctor
leaned down. Haswell, still holding his wrist, pulled him closer. I
could not hear what was said, though somehow I had an impression that
they were talking about Prescott, for it would not have been at all
strange if the old man had been greatly impressed by the alchemist.

Kennedy, I noticed, had pulled an old envelope from his pocket and was
apparently engaged in jotting down some notes, glancing now and then
from his writing to the doctor and then to Mr. Haswell.

The doctor stood erect in a few moments and rubbed his wrist
thoughtfully with the other hand, as if it hurt. At the same time he
smiled on Mrs. Martin. "Your father has a good deal of strength yet,
Mrs. Martin," he remarked. "He has a wonderful constitution. I feel
sure that we can pull him out of this and that he has many, many years
to live."

Mr. Haswell, who caught the words eagerly, brightened visibly, and the
doctor passed out. Kennedy resumed his description of the supposed
wireless picture apparatus which was to revolutionize the newspaper,
the theatre, and daily life in general. The old man did not seem
enthusiastic and turned to his daughter with some remark.

"Just at present," commented the daughter, with an air of finality,
"the only thing my father is much interested in is a way in which
to recover his sight without an operation. He has just had a rather
unpleasant experience with one inventor. I think it will be some time
before he cares to embark in any other such schemes."

Kennedy and I excused ourselves with appropriate remarks of
disappointment. From his preoccupied manner it was impossible for me
to guess whether Craig had accomplished his purpose or not.

"Let us drop in on Dr. Burnham since we are over here," he said when
we had reached the street. "I have some questions to ask him."

The former physician of Mr. Haswell lived not very far from the house
we had just left. He appeared a little surprised to see us so soon,
but very interested in what had taken place.

"Who is this Dr. Scott?" asked Craig when we were seated in the
comfortable leather chairs of the old-fashioned consulting-room.

"Really, I know no more about him than you do," replied Burnham. I
thought I detected a little of professional jealousy in his tone,
though he went on frankly enough, "I have made inquiries and I can
find out nothing except that he is supposed to be a graduate of some
Western medical school and came to this city only a short time ago. He
has hired a small office in a new building devoted entirely to doctors
and they tell me that he is an eye and ear specialist, though I cannot
see that he has any practice. Beyond that I know nothing about him."

"Your friend Prescott interests me, too," remarked Kennedy, changing
the subject quickly.

"Oh, he is no friend of mine," returned the doctor, fumbling in a
drawer of his desk. "But I think I have one of his cards here which
he gave me when we were introduced some time ago at Mr. Haswell's. I
should think it would be worth while to see him. Although he has no
use for me because I have neither money nor influence, still you might
take this card. Tell him you are from the university, that I have
interested you in him, that you know a trustee with money to
invest--anything you like that is plausible. When are you going to see

"The first thing in the morning," replied Kennedy. "After I have seen
him I shall drop in for another chat with you. Will you be here?"

The doctor promised, and we took our departure.

Prescott's laboratory, which we found the next day from the address
on the card, proved to be situated in one of the streets near the
waterfront under the bridge approach, where the factories and
warehouses clustered thickly. It was with a great deal of anticipation
of seeing something happen that we threaded our way through the maze
of streets with the cobweb structure of the bridge, carrying its
endless succession of cars arching high over our heads. We had nearly
reached the place when Kennedy paused and pulled out two pairs of
glasses, those huge round tortoiseshell affairs.

"You needn't mind these, Walter," he explained. "They are only plain
glass, that is, not ground. You can see through them as well as
through air. We must be careful not to excite suspicion. Perhaps a
disguise might have been better, but I think this will do. There--they
add at least a decade to your age. If you could see yourself you
wouldn't speak to your reflection. You look as scholarly as a Chinese
mandarin. Remember, let me do the talking and do just as I do."

We had now entered the shop, stumbled up the dark stairs, and
presented Dr. Burnham's card with a word of explanation along the
lines which he had suggested. Prescott, surrounded by his retorts,
crucibles, burettes, and condensers, received us much more graciously
than I had had any reason to anticipate. He was a man in the late
forties, his face covered with a thick beard, and his eyes, which
seemed a little weak, were helped out with glasses almost as scholarly
as ours.

I could not help thinking that we three bespectacled figures lacked
only the flowing robes to be taken for a group of mediaeval alchemists
set down a few centuries out of our time in the murky light of
Prescott's sanctum. Yet, though he accepted us at our face value, and
began to talk of his strange discoveries there was none of the old
familiar prating about matrix and flux, elixir, magisterium, magnum
opus, the mastery and the quintessence, those alternate names for the
philosopher's stone which Paracelsus, Simon Forman, Jerome Cardan, and
the other mediaeval worthies indulged in. This experience at least was
as up-to-date as the Curies, Becquerel, Ramsay, and the rest.

"Transmutation," remarked Prescott, "was, as you know, finally
declared to be a scientific absurdity in the eighteenth century. But I
may say that it is no longer so regarded. I do not ask you to believe
anything until you have seen; all I ask is that you maintain the same
open mind which the most progressive scientists of to-day exhibit in
regard to the subject."

Kennedy had seated himself some distance from a curious piece or
rather collection of apparatus over which Prescott was working. It
consisted of numerous coils and tubes.

"It may seem strange to you, gentlemen," Prescott proceeded, "that a
man who is able to produce gold from, say, copper should be seeking
capital from other people. My best answer to that old objection is
that I am not seeking capital, as such. The situation with me is
simply this. Twice I have applied to the patent office for a patent
on my invention. They not only refuse to grant it, but they refuse to
consider the application or even to give me a chance to demonstrate my
process to them. On the other hand, suppose I try this thing secretly.
How can I prevent any one from learning my trade secret, leaving me,
and making gold on his own account? Men will desert as fast as I
educate them. Think of the economic result of that; it would turn the
world topsy-turvy. I am looking for some one who can be trusted to the
last limit to join with me, furnish the influence and standing while
I furnish the brains and the invention. Either we must get the
government interested and sell the invention to it or we must get
government protection and special legislation. I am not seeking
capital; I am seeking protection. First let me show you something."

He turned a switch, and a part of the collection of apparatus began to

"You are undoubtedly acquainted with the modern theories of matter,"
he began, plunging into the explanation of his process. "Starting
with the atom, we believe no longer that it is indivisible. Atoms
are composed of thousands of ions, as they are called--really little
electric charges. Again, you know that we have found that all the
elements fall into groups. Each group has certain related atomic
weights and properties which can be and have been predicted in advance
of the discovery of missing elements in the group. I started with the
reasonable assumption that the atom of one element in a group could
be modified so as to become the atom of another element in the group,
that one group could perhaps be transformed into another, and so on,
if only I knew the force that would change the number or modify the
vibrations of these ions composing the various atoms.

"Now for years I have been seeking that force or combination of forces
that would enable me to produce this change in the elements--raising
or lowering them in the scale, so to speak. I have found it. I am not
going to tell you or any other man whom you may interest the secret of
how it is done until I find some one I can trust as I trust myself.
But I am none the less willing that you should see the results. If
they are not convincing, then nothing can be."

He appeared to be debating whether to explain further, and finally
resumed: "Matter thus being in reality a manifestation of force or
ether in motion, it is necessary to change and control that force and
motion. This assemblage of machines here is for that purpose. Now a
few words as to my theory."

He took a pencil and struck a sharp blow on the table. "There you have
a single blow," he said, "just one isolated noise. Now if I strike
this tuning fork you have a vibrating note. In other words, a
succession of blows or wave vibrations of a certain kind affects
the ear and we call it sound, just as a succession of other wave
vibrations affects the retina and we have sight. If a moving picture
moves slower than a certain number of pictures a minute you see the
separate pictures; faster it is one moving picture.

"Now as we increase the rapidity of wave vibration and decrease the
wave length we pass from, sound waves to heat waves or what are known
as the infra-red waves, those which lie below the red in the spectrum
of light. Next we come to light, which is composed of the seven colors
as you know from seeing them resolved in a prism. After that are what
are known as the ultra-violet rays, which lie beyond the violet of
white light. We also have electric waves, the waves of the alternating
current, and shorter still we find the Hertzian waves, which are used
in wireless. We have only begun to know of X-rays and the alpha, beta,
and gamma rays from them, of radium, radioactivity, and finally of
this new force which I have discovered and call 'protodyne,' the
original force.

"In short, we find in the universe Matter, Force, and Ether. Matter
is simply ether in motion, is composed of corpuscles, electrically
charged ions, or electrons, moving units of negative electricity about
one one-thousandth part of the hydrogen atom. Matter is made up of
electricity and nothing but electricity. Let us see what that leads
to. You are acquainted with Mendeleeff's periodic table?"

He drew forth a huge chart on which all the eighty or so elements were
arranged in eight groups or octaves and twelve series. Selecting one,
he placed his finger on the letters "Au," Under which was written the
number, 197.2. I wondered what the mystic letters and figures meant.

"That," he explained, "is the scientific name for the element gold and
the figure is its atomic weight. You will see," he added, pointing
down the second vertical column on the chart, "that gold belongs to
the hydrogen group--hydrogen, lithium, sodium, potassium, copper,
rubidium, silver, caesium, then two blank spaces for elements yet
to be discovered to science, then gold, and finally another unknown

Running his finger along the eleventh, horizontal series, he
continued: "The gold series--not the group--reads gold, mercury,
thallium, lead, bismuth, and other elements known only to myself. For
the known elements, however, these groups and series are now perfectly
recognized by all scientists; they are determined by the fixed weight
of the atom, and there is a close approximation to regularity.

"This twelfth series is interesting. So far only radium, thorium, and
uranium are generally known. We know that the radioactive elements are
constantly breaking down, and one often hears uranium, for instance,
called the 'parent' of radium. Radium also gives off an emanation,
and among its products is helium, quite another element. Thus the
transmutation of matter is well known within certain bounds to all
scientists to-day like yourself, Professor Kennedy. It has even
been rumored but never proved that copper has been transformed into
lithium--both members of the hydrogen-gold group, you will observe.
Copper to lithium is going backward, so to speak. It has remained for
me to devise this protodyne apparatus by which I can reverse that
process of decay and go forward in the table, so to put it--can change
lithium into copper and copper into gold. I can create and destroy
matter by protodyne."

He had been fingering a switch as he spoke. Now he turned it on
triumphantly. A curious snapping and crackling noise followed,
becoming more rapid, and as it mounted in intensity I could smell a
pungent odor of ozone which told of an electric discharge. On went
the machine until we could feel heat radiating from it. Then came a
piercing burst of greenish-blue light from a long tube which looked
like a curious mercury vapor lamp.

After a few minutes of this Prescott took a small crucible of black
lead. "Now we are ready to try it," he cried in great excitement.
"Here I have a crucible containing some copper. Any substance in the
group would do, even hydrogen if there was any way I could handle the
gas. I place it in the machine--so. Now, if you could watch inside you
would see it change; it is now rubidium, now silver, now caesium. Now
it is a hitherto unknown element which I have named after myself,
presium, now a second unknown element, cottium--ah! there we have

He drew forth the crucible, and there glowed in it a little bead or
globule of molten gold.

"I could have taken lead or mercury and by varying the process done
the same thing with the gold series as well as the gold group," he
said, regarding the globule with obvious pride. "And I can put this
gold back and bring it out copper or hydrogen, or better yet, can
advance it instead of cause it to decay, and can get a radioactive
element which I have named morganium--after my first name, Morgan
Prescott. Morganium is a radioactive element next in the series to
radium and much more active. Come closer and examine the gold."

Kennedy shook his head as if perfectly satisfied to accept the result.
As for me I knew not what to think. It was all so plausible and there
was the bead of gold, too, that I turned to Craig for enlightenment.
Was he convinced? His face was inscrutable.

But as I looked I could see that Kennedy had been holding concealed
in the palm of his hand a bit of what might be a mineral. From my
position I could see the bit of mineral glowing, but Prescott could

"Might I ask," interrupted Kennedy, "what that curious greenish or
bluish light from the tube is composed of?"

Prescott eyed him keenly for an instant through his thick glasses.
Craig had shifted his gaze from the bit of mineral in his own hand,
but was not looking at the light. He seemed to be indifferently
contemplating Prescott's hand as it rested on the switch.

"That, sir," replied Prescott slowly, "is an emanation due to this new
force, protodyne, which I use. It is a manifestation of energy, sir,
that may run changes not only through the whole gamut of the elements,
but is capable of transforming the ether itself into matter, matter
into life, and life into mind. It is the outward sign of the unity of
nature, the--"

"The means by which you secure the curious telepagrams I have heard
of?" inquired Kennedy eagerly.

Prescott looked at him sharply, and for a moment I thought his face
seemed to change from a livid white to an apoplectic red, although it
may have been only the play of the weird light. When he spoke it was
with no show of even suppressed surprise.

"Yes," he answered calmly. "I see that you have heard something of
them. I had a curious case a few days ago. I had hoped to interest a
certain capitalist of high standing in this city. I had showed him
just what I have showed you, and I think he was impressed by it. Then
I thought to clinch the matter by a telepagram, but for some reason
or other I failed to consult the forces I control as to the wisdom
of doing so. Had I, I should have known better. But I went ahead in
self-confidence and enthusiasm. I told him of a long banished daughter
with whom, in his heart, he was really wishing to become reconciled
but was too proud to say the word. He resented it. He started to stamp
out of this room, but not before I had another telepagram which told
of a misfortune that was soon to overtake the old man himself. If he
had given me a chance I might have saved him, at least have flashed a
telepagram to that daughter myself, but he gave me no chance. He was

"I do not know precisely what happened after that, but in some way
this man found his daughter, and to-day she is living with him. As for
my hopes of getting assistance from him, I lost them from the moment
when I made my initial mistake of telling him something distasteful.
The daughter hates me and I hate her. I have learned that she never
ceases advising the old man against all schemes for investment
except those bearing moderate interest and readily realized on. Dr.
Burnham--I see you know him--has been superseded by another doctor,
I believe. Well, well, I am through with that incident. I must get
assistance from other sources. The old man, I think, would have
tricked me out of the fruits of my discovery anyhow. Perhaps I am
fortunate. Who knows?"

A knock at the door cut him short. Prescott opened it, and a messenger
boy stood there. "Is Professor Kennedy here?" he inquired.

Craig motioned to the boy, signed for the message, and tore it open.
"It is from Dr. Burnham," he exclaimed, handing the message to me.

"Mr. Haswell is dead," I read. "Looks to me like asphyxiation by gas
or some other poison. Come immediately to his house. Burnham."

"You will pardon me," broke in Craig to Prescott, who was regarding us
without the slightest trace of emotion, "but Mr. Haswell, the old man
to whom I know you referred, is dead, and Dr. Burnham wishes to see
me immediately. It was only yesterday that I saw Mr. Haswell and he
seemed in pretty good health and spirits. Prescott, though there was
no love lost between you and the old man, I would esteem it a great
favor if you would accompany me to the house. You need not take any
responsibility unless you desire."

His words were courteous enough, but Craig spoke in a tone of quiet
authority which Prescott found it impossible to deny, Kennedy had
already started to telephone to his own laboratory, describing a
certain suitcase to one of his students and giving his directions. It
was only a moment later that we were panting up the sloping street
that led from the river front. In the excitement I scarcely noticed
where we were going until we hurried up the steps to the Haswell

The aged caretaker met us at the door. She was in tears. Upstairs in
the front room where we had first met the old man we found Dr. Burnham
working frantically over him. It took only a minute to learn what had
happened. The faithful Jane had noticed an odor of gas in the hall,
had traced it to Mr. Haswell's room, had found him unconscious, and
instinctively, forgetting the new Dr. Scott, had rushed forth for Dr.
Burnham. Near the bed stood Grace Martin, pale but anxiously watching
the efforts of the doctor to resuscitate the blue-faced man who was
stretched cold and motionless on the bed.

Dr. Burnham paused in his efforts as we entered. "He is dead, all
right," he whispered, aside. "I have tried everything I know to bring
him back, but he is beyond help."

There was still a sickening odor of illuminating gas in the room,
although the windows were now all open.

Kennedy, with provoking calmness in the excitement, turned from and
ignored Dr. Burnham. "Have you summoned Dr. Scott?" he asked Mrs.

"No," she replied, surprised. "Should I have done so?"

"Yes. Send Jane immediately. Mr. Prescott, will you kindly be seated
for a few moments."

Taking off his coat, Kennedy advanced to the bed where the emaciated
figure lay, cold and motionless. Craig knelt down at Mr. Haswell's
head and took the inert arms, raising them up until they were extended
straight. Then be brought them down, folded upward at the elbow at
the side. Again and again he tried this Sylvester method of inducing
respiration, but with no more result than Dr. Burnham had secured. He
turned the body over on its face and tried the new Schaefer method.
There seemed to be not a spark of life left.

"Dr. Scott is out," reported the maid breathlessly, "but they are
trying to locate him from his office, and if they do they will send
him around immediately."

A ring at the doorbell caused us to think that he had been found, but
it proved to be the student to whom Kennedy had telephoned at his own
laboratory. He was carrying a heavy suitcase and a small tank.

Kennedy opened the suitcase hastily and disclosed a little motor, some
long tubes of rubber fitting into a small rubber cap, forceps, and
other paraphernalia. The student quickly attached one tube to the
little tank, while Kennedy grasped the tongue of the dead man with the
forceps, pulled it up off the soft palate, and fitted the rubber cap
snugly over his mouth and nose.

"This is the Draeger pulmotor," he explained as he worked, "devised
to resuscitate persons who have died of electric shock, but actually
found to be of more value in cases of asphyxiation. Start the motor."

The pulmotor began to pump. One could see the dead man's chest rise as
it was inflated with oxygen forced by the accordion bellows from the
tank through one of the tubes into the lungs. Then it fell as the
oxygen and the poisonous gas were slowly sucked out through the other
tube. Again and again the process was repeated, about ten times a

Dr. Burnham looked on in undisguised amazement. He had long since
given up all hope. The man was dead, Medically dead, as dead as ever
was any gas victim at this stage on whom all the usual methods of
resuscitation had been tried and had failed.

Still, minute after minute, Kennedy worked faithfully on, trying to
discover some spark of life and to fan it into flame. At last, after
what seemed to be a half-hour of unremitting effort, when the oxygen
had long since been exhausted and only fresh air was being pumped into
the lungs and out of them, there was a first faint glimmer of life in
the heart and a touch of color in the cheeks. Haswell was coming to.
Another half-hour found him muttering and rambling weakly.

"The letter--the letter," he moaned, rolling his glazed eyes about.
"Where is the letter? Send for Grace."

The moan was so audible that it was startling. It was like a voice
from the grave. What did it all mean? Mrs. Martin was at his side in a

"Father, father,--here I am--Grace. What do you want?"

The old man moved restlessly, feverishly, and pressed his trembling
hand to his forehead as if trying to collect his thoughts. He was
weak, but it was evident that he had been saved.

The pulmotor had been stopped. Craig threw the cap to his student to
be packed up, and as he did so he remarked quietly, "I could wish
that Dr. Scott had been found. There are some matters here that might
interest him."

He paused and looked slowly from the rescued man lying dazed on the
bed toward Mrs. Martin. It was quite apparent even to me that she did
not share the desire to see Dr. Scott, at least not just then. She was
flushed and trembling with emotion. Crossing the room hurriedly she
flung open the door into the hall.

"I am sure," she cried, controlling herself with difficulty and
catching at a straw, as it were, "that you gentlemen, even if you have
saved my father, are no friends of either his or mine. You have merely
come here in response to Dr. Burnham, and he came because Jane lost
her head in the excitement and forgot that Dr. Scott is now our

"But Dr. Scott could not have been found in time, madame," interposed
Dr. Burnham with evident triumph.

She ignored the remark and continued to hold the door open.

"Now leave us," she implored, "you, Dr. Burnham, you, Mr. Prescott,
you, Professor Kennedy, and your friend Mr. Jameson, whoever you may

She was now cold and calm. In the bewildering change of events we had
forgotten the wan figure on the bed still gasping for the breath of
life. I could not help wondering at the woman's apparent lack of
gratitude, and a thought flashed over my mind. Had the affair come to
a contest between various parties fighting by fair means or foul for
the old man's money--Scott and Mrs. Martin perhaps against Prescott
and Dr. Burnham.

No one moved. We seemed to be waiting on Kennedy. Prescott and Mrs.
Martin were now glaring at each other implacably.

The old man moved restlessly on the bed, and over my shoulder I could
hear him gasp faintly, "Where's Grace? Send for Grace."

Mrs. Martin paid no attention, seemed not to hear, but stood facing
us imperiously as if waiting for us to obey her orders and leave the
house. Burnham moved toward the door, but Prescott stood his ground
with a peculiar air of defiance. Then he took my arm and started
rather precipitately, I thought, to leave.

"Come, come," said somebody behind us, "enough of the dramatics."

It was Kennedy, who had been bending down, listening to the muttering
of the old man.

"Look at those eyes of Mr. Haswell," he said. "What color are they?"

We looked. They were blue.

"Down in the parlor," continued Kennedy leisurely, "you will find a
portrait of the long deceased Mrs. Haswell. If you will examine that
painting you will see that her eyes are also a peculiarly limpid blue.
No couple with blue eyes ever had a black-eyed child. At least, if
this is such a case, the Carnegie Institution investigators would
be glad to hear of it, for it is contrary to all that they have
discovered on the subject after years of study of eugenics. Dark-eyed
couples may have light-eyed children, but the reverse, never. What do
you say to that, madame?"

"You lie," screamed the woman, rushing frantically past us. "I am his
daughter. No interlopers shall separate us Father!"

The old man moved feebly away from her.

"Send for Dr. Scott again," she demanded. "See if he cannot be found.
He must be found. You are all enemies, villains."

She addressed Kennedy, but included the whole room in her

"Not all," broke in Kennedy remorselessly. "Yes, madame, send for Dr.
Scott. Why is he not here?"

Prescott, with one hand on my arm and the other on Dr. Burnham's, was
moving toward the door.

"One moment, Prescott," interrupted Kennedy, detaining him with a
look. "There was something I was about to say when Dr. Burnham's
urgent message prevented it. I did not take the trouble even to find
out how you obtained that little globule of molten gold from the
crucible of alleged copper. There are so many tricks by which the gold
could have been 'salted' and brought forth at the right moment that it
was hardly worth while. Besides, I had satisfied myself that my first
suspicions were correct. See that?"

He held out the little piece of mineral I had already seen in his hand
in the alchemist's laboratory.

"That is a piece of willemite. It has the property of glowing or
fluorescing under a certain kind of rays which are themselves
invisible to the human eye. Prescott, your story of the transmutation
of elements is very clever, but not more clever than your real story.
Let us piece it together. I had already heard from Dr. Burnham how Mr.
Haswell was induced by his desire for gain to visit you and how you
had most mysteriously predicted his blindness. Now, there is no such
thing as telepathy, at least in this case. How then was I to explain
it? What could cause such a catastrophe naturally? Why, only those
rays invisible to the human eye, but which make this piece of
willemite glow--the ultra-violet rays."

Kennedy was speaking rapidly and was careful not to pause long enough
to give Prescott an opportunity to interrupt him.

"These ultra-violet rays," he continued, "are always present in an
electric arc light though not to a great degree unless the carbons
have metal cores. They extend for two octaves above the violet of the
spectrum and are too short to affect the eye as light, although they
affect photographic plates. They are the friend of man when he uses
them in moderation as Finsen did in the famous blue light treatment.
But they tolerate no familiarity. To let them--particularly the
shorter of the rays--enter the eye is to invite trouble. There is no
warning sense of discomfort, but from six to eighteen hours after
exposure to them the victim experiences violent pains in the eyes and
headache. Sight may be seriously impaired, and it may take years to
recover. Often prolonged exposure results in blindness, though a
moderate exposure acts like a tonic. The rays may be compared in this
double effect to drugs, such as strychnine. Too much of them may be
destructive even to life itself."

Prescott had now paused and was regarding Kennedy contemptuously.
Kennedy paid no attention, but continued: "Perhaps these mysterious
rays may shed some light on our minds, however. Now, for one thing,
ultra-violet light passes readily through quartz, but is cut off by
ordinary glass, especially if it is coated with chromium. Old Mr.
Haswell did not wear glasses. Therefore he was subject to the
rays--the more so as he is a blond, and I think it has been
demonstrated by investigators that blonds are more affected by them
than are brunettes.

"You have, as a part of your machine, a peculiarly shaped quartz
mercury vapor lamp, and the mercury vapor lamp of a design such as
that I saw has been invented for the especial purpose of producing
ultra-violet rays in large quantity. There are also in your machine
induction coils for the purpose of making an impressive noise, and
a small electric furnace to heat the salted gold. I don't know what
other ingenious fakes you have added. The visible bluish light from
the tube is designed, I suppose, to hoodwink the credulous, but the
dangerous thing about it is the invisible ray that accompanies that
light. Mr. Haswell sat under those invisible rays, Prescott, never
knowing how deadly they might be to him, an old man.

"You knew that they would not take effect for hours, and hence you
ventured the prediction that he would be stricken at about midnight.
Even if it was partial or temporary, still you would be safe in your
prophecy. You succeeded better than you hoped in that part of your
scheme. You had already prepared the way by means of a letter sent to
Mr. Haswell through Dr. Burnham. But Mr. Haswell's credulity and fear
worked the wrong way. Instead of appealing to you he hated you. In
his predicament he thought only of his banished daughter and turned
instinctively to her for help. That made necessary a quick change of

Prescott, far from losing his nerve, turned on us bitterly. "I knew
you two were spies the moment I saw you," he shouted. "It seemed as if
in some way I knew you for what you were, as if I knew you had seen
Mr. Haswell before you came to me. You, too, would have robbed an
inventor as I am sure he would. But have a care, both of you. You may
be punished also by blindness for your duplicity. Who knows?"

A shudder passed over me at the horrible thought contained in his
mocking laugh. Were we doomed to blindness, too? I looked at the
sightless man on the bed in alarm.

"I knew that you would know us," retorted Kennedy calmly. "Therefore
we came provided with spectacles of Euphos glass, precisely like those
you wear. No, Prescott, we are safe, though perhaps we may have some
burns like those red blotches on Mr. Haswell, light burns."

Prescott had fallen back a step and Mrs. Martin was making an effort
to appear stately and end the interview.

"No," continued Craig, suddenly wheeling, and startling us by the
abruptness of his next exposure, "it is you and your wife here--Mrs.
Prescott, not Mrs. Martin--who must have a care. Stop glaring at each
other. It is no use playing at enemies longer and trying to get rid of
us. You overdo it. The game is up."

Prescott made a rush at Kennedy, who seized him by the wrist and held
him tightly in a grasp of steel that caused the veins on the back of
his hands to stand out like whipcords.

"This is a deep-laid plot," he went on calmly, still holding Prescott,
while I backed up against the door and cut off his wife; "but it is
not so difficult to see it after all. Your part was to destroy the
eyesight of the old man, to make it necessary for him to call on his
daughter. Your wife's part was to play the role of Mrs. Martin, whom
he had not seen for years and could not see now. She was to persuade
him, with her filial affection, to make her the beneficiary of his
will, to see that his money was kept readily convertible into cash.

"Then, when the old man was at last out of the way, you two could
decamp with what you could realize before the real daughter cut off
somewhere across the continent could hear of the death of her father.
It was an excellent scheme. But Haswell's plain material newspaper
advertisement was not so effective for your purposes, Prescott, as the
more artistic 'telepagram,' as you call it. Although you two got in
first in answering the advertisement, it finally reached the right
person after all. You didn't get away quickly enough.

"You were not expecting that the real daughter would see it and turn
up so soon. But she has. She lives in California. Mr. Haswell in his
delirium has just told of receiving a telegram which I suppose you,
Mrs. Prescott, read, destroyed, and acted upon. It hurried your plans,
but you were equal to the emergency. Besides, possession is nine
points in the law. You tried the gas, making it look like a suicide.
Jane, in her excitement, spoiled that, and Dr. Burnham, knowing
where I was, as it happened, was able to summon me immediately.
Circumstances have been against you from the first, Prescott."

Craig was slowly twisting up the hand of the inventor, which he still
held. With his other hand he pulled a paper from his pocket. It was
the old envelope on which he had "written upon the occasion of our
first visit to Mr. Haswell when we had been so unceremoniously
interrupted by the visit of Dr. Scott.

"I sat here yesterday by this bed," continued Craig, motioning toward
the chair he had occupied, as I remembered "Mr. Haswell was telling
Dr. Scott something in an undertone. I could not hear it. But the old
man grasped the doctor by the wrist to pull him closer to whisper
to him. The doctor's hand was toward me and I noticed the peculiar
markings of the veins.

"You perhaps are not acquainted with the fact, but the markings of
the veins in the back of the hand are peculiar to each individual--as
infallible, indestructible, and ineffaceable as finger prints or the
shape of the ear. It is a system invented and developed by Professor
Tamassia of the University of Padua, Italy. A superficial observer
would say that all vein patterns were essentially similar, and many
have said so, but Tamassia has found each to be characteristic and
all subject to almost incredible diversities. There are six general
classes--in this case before us, two large veins crossed by a few
secondary veins forming a V with its base near the wrist.

"Already my suspicions had been aroused. I sketched the arrangement of
the veins standing out on that hand. I noted the same thing just now
on the hand that manipulated the fake apparatus in the laboratory.
Despite the difference in make-up Scott and Prescott are the same.

"The invisible rays of the ultra-violet light may have blinded Mr.
Haswell, even to the recognition of his own daughter, but you can
rest assured, Prescott, that the very cleverness of your scheme will
penetrate the eyes of the blindfolded goddess of justice. Burnham, if
you will have the kindness to summon the police, I will take all the
responsibility for the arrest of these people."



"Detectives in fiction nearly always make a great mistake," said
Kennedy one evening after a conversation on crime and science. "They
almost invariably antagonize the regular detective force. Now in real
life that's impossible--it's fatal."

"Yes," I agreed, looking up from reading an account of the failure
of a large Wall Street brokerage house, Kerr Parker & Co., and the
peculiar suicide of Kerr Parker. "Yes, it's impossible, just as it is
impossible for the regular detectives to antagonize the newspapers.
Scotland Yard found that out in the Crippen case."

"My idea of the thing, Jameson," continued Kennedy, "is that the
professor of criminal science ought to work with, not against, the
regular detectives. They're all right. They're indispensable, of
course. Half the secret of success nowadays is organization. The
professor of criminal science should be merely what the professor in
a technical school often is--a sort of consulting engineer. For
instance, I believe that organization plus science would go far toward
clearing up that Wall Street case I see you are reading."

I expressed some doubt as to whether the regular police were
enlightened enough to take that view of it.

"Some of them are," he replied. "Yesterday the chief of Police in a
Western city sent a man East to see me about the Price murder--you
know the case?"

Indeed I did. A wealthy banker of the town had been murdered on the
road to the golf club, no one knew why or by whom. Every clue had
proved fruitless, and the list of suspects was itself so long and so
impossible as to seem most discouraging.

Book of the day:
Facebook Google Reddit StumbleUpon Twitter Pinterest