Kennedy was deeply immersed in writing a lecture on the chemical
compositions of various bacterial toxins and antitoxins, a thing which
was as unfamiliar to me as Kamchatka, but as familiar to Kennedy as
Broadway and Forty-second Street.
“Really,” he remarked, laying down his fountain-pen and lighting his
cigar for the hundredth time, “the more one thinks of how the modern
criminal misses his opportunities the more astonishing it seems. Why do
they stick to pistols, chloroform, and prussic acid when there is such a
splendid assortment of refined methods they might employ?”
“Give it up, old man,” I replied helplessly, “unless it is because they
haven't any imagination. I hope they don't use them. What would become
of my business if they did? How would you ever get a really dramatic
news feature for the Star out of such a thing? 'Dotted line marks route
taken by fatal germ; cross indicates spot where antitoxin attacked
it'--ha! ha! not much for the yellow journals in that, Craig.”
“To my mind, Walter, it would be the height of the dramatic--far more
dramatic than sending a bullet into a man. Any fool can shoot a pistol
or cut a throat, but it takes brains to be up-to-date.”
“It may be so;” I admitted, and went on reading, while Kennedy scratched
away diligently on his lecture. I mention this conversation both because
it bears on my story, by a rather peculiar coincidence, and because it
showed me a new side of Kennedy's amazing researches. He was as
much interested in bacteria as in chemistry, and the story is one of
bacteria.
It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later when the buzzer on our hall
door sounded. Imagine my surprise on opening the door to discover the
slight figure of what appeared to be a most fascinating young lady who
was heavily veiled. She was in a state almost bordering on hysteria, as
even I, in spite of my usual obtuseness, noticed.
“Is Professor Kennedy in?” she inquired anxiously.
“Yes, ma'am;” I replied, opening the door into our study.
She advanced toward him, repeating her inquiry.
“I am Professor Kennedy. Pray be seated,” he said.
The presence of a lady in our apartment was such a novelty that really
I forgot to disappear, but busied myself straightening the furniture and
opening a window to allow the odour of stale tobacco to escape.
“My name is Eveline Bisbee,” she began. “I have heard, Professor
Kennedy, that you are an adept at getting at the bottom of difficult
mysteries.”
“You flatter me;” he said in acknowledgment. “Who was so foolish as to
tell you that?”
“A friend who has heard of the Kerr Parker case,” she replied.
“I beg your pardon,” I interrupted, “I didn't mean to intrude. I think
I'll go out. I'll be back in an hour or two.”
“Please, Mr. Jameson--it is Mr. Jameson, is it not?”