but I cannot let the occasion of your seventy-fifth birthday=20
pass without a word of affection and congratulation. I am alive=20
and well. Time has dealt leniently with me in that respect, if=20
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 travelling from place to place, but shall
be here for a few days.
Your loving daughter,
GRACE HASWELL MARTIN.
"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.=20
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 Brooklyn."
"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 telepagram.'
"'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.
STEPHEN HASWELL,
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 parlour,
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 revolutionise 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 him?"
"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=20do. 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 medieval 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 medieval 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 vibrate.
"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.