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 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 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
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.
"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 colours 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.