emphasize what he was about to say. "The poisoning and the robbery were
the work of one hand. That sequin is the key that has unlocked the
secret which my pneumograph has recorded. Some one saw that robbery
committed--knew nothing of the contemplated poisoning to cover it. To
save the reputation of the robber--at any cost--on the spur of the
moment the ruse of placing the sequin in the closet occurred."
Madeline Hargrave turned to Mina, while I recalled Lewis's remark about
Mina's stepping on the train and tearing it. The defiance in her black
eyes flashed from Madeline to Kennedy.
"Yes," she cried; "I did it! I--"
As quickly the defiance had faded. Mina Leitch had fainted.
"Some water--quick!" cried Kennedy.
I sprang through the door into Mansfield's room. As I passed I caught
sight of Helen Grey supporting the head of Mansfield--both oblivious to
actresses, diamonds, everything that had so nearly caused a tragedy.
"No," I heard Kennedy say to Lewis as I returned; "it was not Mina. The
person she shielded was wildly in love with her, insanely jealous of
Mansfield for even looking at her, and in debt so hopelessly in
Mansfield's ventures that only the big diamond could save him--Doctor
Murray himself!"
III
THE SOUL-ANALYSIS
"Here's the most remarkable appeal," observed Kennedy, one morning, as
he tossed over to me a letter. "What do you make of that?" It read:
MONTROSE, CONN.
MY DEAR PROFESSOR KENNEDY:
You do not know me, but I have heard a great deal about you. Please, I
beg of you, do not disregard this letter. At least try to verify the
appeal I am making.
I am here at the Belleclaire Sanatorium, run by Dr. Bolton Burr, in
Montrose. But it is not a real sanatorium. It is really a private
asylum.
Let me tell my story briefly. After my baby was born I devoted myself
to it. But, in spite of everything, it died. Meanwhile my husband
neglected me terribly. After the baby's death I was a nervous wreck,
and I came up here to rest.
Now I find I am being held here as an insane patient. I cannot get out.
I do not even know whether this letter will reach you. But the
chambermaid here has told me she will post it for me.
I am ill and nervous--a wreck, but not insane, although they will tell
you that the twilight-sleep treatment affected my mind. But what is
happening here will eventually drive me insane if some one does not
come to my rescue.
Cannot you get in to see me as a doctor or friend? I will leave all to
you after that.
Yours anxiously,
JANET (MRS. ROGER) CRANSTON.
"What do you make of it yourself?" I returned, handing back the letter.
"Are you going to take it up?" He slowly looked over the letter again.
"Judging by the handwriting," he remarked, thoughtfully, "I should say
that the writer is laboring under keen excitement--though there is no
evidence of insanity on the face of it. Yes; I think I'll take up the
case."
"But how are you going to get in?" I asked. "They'll never admit you
willingly."
Kennedy pondered a minute. "I'll get in, all right," he said, at
length; "come on--I'm going to call on Roger Cranston first."
"Roger Cranston?" I repeated, dumfounded. "Why, he'll never help you!
Ten to one he's in on it."
"We'll have to take a chance," returned Kennedy, hurrying me out of the
laboratory.
Roger Cranston was a well-known lawyer and man about town. We found him
in his office on lower Broadway. He was young and
distinguished-looking, which probably accounted for the fact that his
office had become a sort of fashionable court of domestic relations.
"I'm a friend of Dr. Bolton Burr, of Montrose," introduced Kennedy.
Cranston looked at him keenly, but Kennedy was a good actor. "I have
been studying some of the patients at the sanatorium, and I have seen
Mrs. Cranston there."
"Indeed!" responded Cranston. "I'm all broken up by it myself."
I could not resist thinking that he took it very calmly, however.
"I should like very much to make what we call a psychanalysis of Mrs.
Cranston's mental condition," Kennedy explained.
"A psychanalysis?" repeated Cranston.
"Yes; you know it is a new system. In the field of abnormal psychology,
the soul-analysis is of first importance. To-day, this study is of the
greatest help in neurology and psychiatry. Only, I can't make it
without the consent of the natural guardian of the patient. Doctor Burr
tells me that you will have no objection."
Cranston thoughtfully studied the wall opposite.
"Well," he returned, slowly, "they tell me that without treatment she
will soon be hopelessly insane--perhaps dangerously so. That is all I
know. I am not a specialist. If Doctor Burr--" He paused.
"If you can give me just a card," urged Kennedy, "that is all Doctor
Burr wishes."
Cranston wrote hastily on the back of one of his cards what Kennedy
dictated.
Please allow Doctor Kennedy to make a psychanalysis of my
wife's mental condition.
"You will let me know--if there is--any hope?" he asked.
"As soon as I can," replied Kennedy, "I'll let you have a copy of my
report."
Cranston thanked us and bowed us to the door suavely.
"Well," I remarked, as we rode down in the elevator, "that was clever.
He fell for it, too. You're an artist. Do you think he was posing?"
Kennedy shrugged his shoulders.
We lost no time in getting the first train for Montrose, before
Cranston had time to reconsider and call up Doctor Burr.
The Belleclaire Sanatorium was on the outskirts of the town. It was an
old stone house, rather dingy, and surrounded by a high stone wall
surmounted by sharp pickets.
Dr. Bolton Burr, who was at the head of the institution, met us in the
plainly furnished reception-room which also served as his office.
Through a window we could see some of the patients walking or sitting
about on a small stretch of scraggly grass between the house and the
wall.
Doctor Burr was a tall and commanding-looking man with a Vandyke beard,
and one would instinctively have picked him out anywhere as a physician.
"I believe you have a patient here--Mrs. Roger Cranston," began
Kennedy, after the usual formalities. Doctor Burr eyed us askance.
"I've been asked by Mr. Cranston to make an examination of his wife,"
pursued Craig, presenting the card which he had obtained from Roger
Cranston.
"H'm!" mused Doctor Burr, looking quickly from the card to Kennedy with
a searching glance.
"I wish you would tell me something of the case before I see her," went
on Kennedy, with absolute assurance.
"Well," temporized Doctor Burr, twirling the card, "Mrs. Cranston came
to me after the death of her child. She was in a terrible state. But we
are slowly building up her shattered nerves by plain, simple living and
a tonic."
"Was she committed by her husband?" queried Kennedy, unexpectedly.
Whether or not Doctor Burr felt suspicious of us I could not tell. But
he seemed eager to justify himself.
"I have the papers committing her to my care," he said, rising and
opening a safe in the corner.
He laid before us a document in which appeared the names of Roger
Cranston and Julia Giles.
"Who is this Julia Giles?" asked Kennedy, after he had read the
document.
"One of our nurses," returned the doctor. "She has had Mrs. Cranston
under observation ever since she arrived."
"I should like to see both Miss Giles and Mrs. Cranston," insisted
Kennedy. "It is not that Mr. Cranston is in any way dissatisfied with
your treatment, but he thought that perhaps I might be of some
assistance to you."
Kennedy's manner was ingratiating but firm, and he hurried on, lest it
should occur to Doctor Burr to call up Cranston. The doctor, still
twirling the card, finally led us through the wide central hall and up
an old-fashioned winding staircase to a large room on the second floor.
He tapped at the door, which was opened, disclosing an interior
tastefully furnished.
Doctor Burr introduced us to Miss Giles, conveying the impression,
which Kennedy had already given, that he was a specialist, and I his
assistant.
Janet Cranston was a young and also remarkably beautiful girl. One
could see traces of sorrow in her face, which was exceedingly, though
not unpleasingly, pale. The restless brilliancy of her eyes spoke of
some physical, if not psychical, disorder. She was dressed in deep
mourning, which heightened her pallor and excited a feeling of mingled
respect and interest. Thick brown coils of chestnut hair were arranged
in such a manner as to give an extremely youthful appearance to her
delicate face. Her emotions were expressed by the constant motion of
her slender fingers.
Miss Giles was a striking woman of an entirely different type. She
seemed to be exuberant with health, as though nursing had taught her
not merely how to take care of others, but had given her the secret of
caring, first of all, for herself.
I could see, as Doctor Burr introduced us to his patient, that Mrs.
Cranston instantly recognized Kennedy's interest in her case. She
received us with a graceful courtesy, but she betrayed no undue
interest that might excite suspicion, nor was there any hint given of
the note of appeal. I wondered whether that might not be an instance of
the cunning for which I had heard that the insane are noted. She showed
no sign of insanity, however.
I looked about curiously to see if there were evidences of the
treatment which she was receiving. On a table stood a bottle and a
glass, as well as a teaspoon, and I recalled the doctor's remark about
the tonic.
"You look tired, Mrs. Cranston," remarked Kennedy, thoughtfully. "Why
not rest while we are here, and then I will be sure my visit has had no
ill effects."
"Thank you," she murmured, and I was much impressed by the sweetness of
her voice.
As he spoke, Kennedy arranged the pillows on a chaise lounge and placed
her on it with her head slightly elevated. Having discussed the subject
of psychanalysis with Kennedy before, I knew that this was so that
nothing might distract her from the free association of ideas.
He placed himself near her head, and motioned to us to stand farther
back of him, where she could not see us.
"Avoid all muscular exertion and distraction," he continued. "I want
you to concentrate your attention thoroughly. Tell me anything that
comes into your mind. Tell all you know of your symptoms. Concentrate,
and repeat all you think of. Frankly express all the thoughts that you
have, even though they may be painful and embarrassing."
He said this soothingly, and she seemed to understand that much
depended upon her answers and the fact of not forcing her ideas.
"I am thinking of my husband," Mrs. Cranston began, finally, in a
dreamy tone.
"What of him?" suggested Kennedy.
"Of how the baby--separated us--and--" She paused, almost in tears.
From what I knew of the method of psychanalysis, I recalled it was the
gaps and hesitations which were most important in arriving at the truth
regarding the cause of her trouble.
"Perhaps it was my fault; perhaps I was a better mother than wife. I
thought I was doing what he would want me to do. Too late I see my
mistake."
It was easy to read into her story that there had been other women in
his life. It had wounded her deeply. Yet it was equally plain that she
still loved him.
"Go on," urged Kennedy, gently.
"Oh yes," she resumed, dreamily; "I am thinking about once, when I left
him, I wandered through the country. I remember little except that it
was the country through which we had passed on an automobile trip on
our honeymoon. Once I thought I saw him, and I tried to get to him. I
longed for him, but each time, when I almost reached him, he would
disappear. I seemed to be so deserted and alone. I tried to call him,
but my tongue refused to say his name. It must have been hours that I
wandered about, for I recall nothing after that until I was found,
disheveled and exhausted."
She paused and closed her eyes, while I could see that Kennedy
considered this gap very important.
"Don't stop," persisted Kennedy. "Once we quarreled over one of his
clients who was suing for a divorce. I thought he was devoting too much
time and attention to her. While there might not have been anything
wrong, still I was afraid. In my anger and anxiety I accused him. He
retorted by slamming the door, and I did not see him for two or three
days. I realized my nervous condition, and one day a mutual friend of
ours introduced me to Doctor Burr and advised me to take a rest-cure at
his sanatorium. By this time Roger and I were on speaking-terms again.
But the death of the baby and the quarrel left me still as nervous as
before. He seemed anxious to have me do something, and so I came here."
"Do you remember anything that happened after that?" asked Craig, for
the first time asking a mildly leading question.
"Yes; I recall everything that happened when I came here," she went on.
"Roger came up with me to complete the necessary arrangements. We were
met at the station by Doctor Burr and this woman who has since been my
nurse and companion. On the way up from the station to the sanatorium
Doctor Burr was very considerate of me, and I noticed that my husband
seemed interested in Miss Giles and the care she was to take of me."
Kennedy flashed a glance at me from a note-book in which he was
apparently busily engaged in jotting down her answers. I did not know
just what interpretation to put on it, but surmised that it meant that
he had struck what the new psychologists call a "complex," in the
entrance of Miss Giles into the case.
Before we realized it there came a sudden outburst of feeling.
"And now--they are keeping me here by force!" she cried.
Doctor Burr looked at us significantly, as much as to say, "Just what
might be expected, you see." Kennedy nodded, but made no effort to stop
Mrs. Cranston.
"They have told Roger that I am insane, and I know he must believe it
or he would not leave me here. But their real motive, I can guess, is
mercenary. I can't complain about my treatment here--it costs enough."
By this time she was sitting bolt upright, staring straight ahead as
though amazed at her own boldness in speaking so frankly before them.
"I feel all right at times--then--it is as though I had a paralysis of
the body, but not of the mind--not of the mind," she repeated, tensely.
There was a frightened look on her face, and her voice was now wildly
appealing.
What would have followed I cannot guess, for at that instant there came
a noise outside from another of the rooms as though pandemonium had
broken loose. By the shouting and confusion, one might easily have
wondered whether keepers and lunatics might not have exchanged places.
"It is just one of the patients who has escaped from his room,"
explained Doctor Burr; "nothing to be alarmed about. We'll soon have
him quieted."
Doctor Burr hurried out into the corridor while Miss Giles was looking
out of the door.
Quickly Kennedy reached over and abstracted several drops from a bottle
of tonic on the table, pouring it into his handkerchief, which he
rolled up tightly and stuffed into his pocket. Mrs. Cranston watched
him pleadingly, and clasped her hands in mute appeal, with a hasty
glance at Miss Giles.
Kennedy said nothing, either, but rapidly folded up a page of the
note-book on which he had been writing and shoved it into Mrs.
Cranston's hand, together with something he had taken from his pocket.
She understood, and quickly placed it in her corsage.
"Read it--when you are absolutely alone," he whispered, just as Miss
Giles shut the door and turned to us.
The excitement subsided almost as quickly as it had arisen, but it had
been sufficient to put a stop to any further study of the case along
those lines. Miss Giles's keen eyes missed no action or movement of her
patient.
Doctor Burr returned shortly. It was evident from his manner that he
wished to have the visit terminated, and Kennedy seemed quite willing
to take the hint. He thanked Mrs. Cranston, and we withdrew quietly,
after bidding her good-by in a manner as reassuring as we could make it
under the circumstances.
"You see," remarked Doctor Burr, as we walked down the hall, "she is
quite unstrung still. Mr. Cranston comes up here once in a while, and
we notice that after these visits she is, if anything, worse."
Down the hall a door had been left open, and we could catch a glimpse
of a patient rolled in a blanket, while two nurses forced something
down his throat. Doctor Burr hastily closed the door as we passed.
"That is the condition Mrs. Cranston might have got into if she had not
come to us when she did," he said. "As it is, she is never violent and
is one of the most tractable patients we have."
We left shortly, without finding out whether Doctor Burr suspected us
of anything or not. As we made our way back to the city, I could not
help the feeling of depression such as Poe mentioned at seeing the
private madhouse in France.
"That glimpse we had into the other room almost makes one recall the
soothing system of Doctor Maillard. Is Doctor Burr's system better?" I
asked.
"A good deal of what we used to think and practise is out of date now,"
returned Kennedy. "I think you are already familiar with the theory of
dreams that has been developed by Dr. Sigmund Freud, of Vienna. But
perhaps you are not aware of the fact that Freud's contribution to the
study of insanity is of even greater scientific value than his dream
theories taken by themselves.
"Hers, I feel sure now, is what is known as one of the so-called
'border-line cases,'" he continued. "It is clearly a case of
hysteria--not the hysteria one hears spoken of commonly, but the
condition which scientists know as such. We trace the impulses from
which hysterical conditions arise, penetrate the disguises which these
repressed impulses or wishes must assume in order to appear in the
consciousness. Such transformed impulses are found in normal people,
too, sometimes. The hysteric suffers mostly from reminiscences which,
paradoxically, may be completely forgotten.
"Obsessions and phobias have their origin, according to Freud, in
sexual life. The obsession represents a compensation or substitute for
an unbearable sexual idea and takes its place in consciousness. In
normal sexual life, no neurosis is possible, say the Freudists. Sex is
the strongest impulse, yet subject to the greatest repression, and
hence the weakest point of our cultural development. Hysteria arises
through the conflict between libido and sex-repression. Often
sex-wishes may be consciously rejected but unconsciously accepted. So
when they are understood every insane utterance has a reason. There is
really method in madness.
"When hysteria in a wife gains her the attention of an otherwise
inattentive husband it fills, from the standpoint of her deeper
longing, an important place, and, in a sense, may be said to be
desirable. The great point about the psychanalytic method, as
discovered by Breuer and Freud, is that certain symptoms of hysteria
disappear when the hidden causes are brought to light and the repressed
desires are gratified."
"How does that apply to Mrs. Cranston?" I queried.
"Mrs. Cranston," he replied, "is suffering from what the psychanalysts
call a psychic trauma--a soul-wound, as it were. It is the neglect, in
this case, of her husband, whom she deeply loves. That, in itself, is
sufficient to explain her experience wandering through the country. It
was the region which she associated with her first love-affair, as she
told us. The wave of recollection that swept over her engulfed her
mind. In other words, reason could no longer dominate the cravings for
a love so long suppressed. Then, when she saw, or imagined she saw, one
who looked like her lover the strain was too great."
It was the middle of the afternoon when we reached the laboratory.
Kennedy at once set to work studying the drops of tonic which had been
absorbed in the handkerchief. As Kennedy worked, I began thinking over
again of what we had seen at the Belleclaire Sanatorium. Somehow or
other, I could not get out of my mind the recollection of the man
rolled in the blanket and trussed up as helpless as a mummy. I wondered
whether that alone was sufficient to account for the quickness with
which he had been pacified. Then I recalled Mrs. Cranston's remark
about her mental alertness and physical weakness. Had it anything to do
with the "tonic"?
"Suppose, while I am waiting," I finally suggested to Craig, "I try to
find out what Cranston does with his time since his wife has been shut
off from the world."
"That's a very good idea," acquiesced Kennedy. "Don't take too long,
however, for I may strike something important here any minute."
After several inquiries over the telephone, I found that since his wife
had been in Montrose Cranston had closed his apartment and was living
at one of his clubs. Having two or three friends who were members, I
did not hesitate to drop around.
Unfortunately, none of my friends happened to be there, and I was
forced, finally, to ask for Cranston himself, although all that I
really wanted to know was whether he was there or not. One of the
clerks told me that he had been in, but had left in a taxicab only a
short time before.
As there was a cab-stand outside the club, I determined to make an
inquiry and perhaps discover the driver who had had him. The starter
knew him, and when I said that it was very important business on which
I wanted to see him he motioned to a driver who had just pulled up.
A chance for another fare and a generous tip were all that was
necessary to induce him to drive me to the Trocadero, a fashionable
restaurant and cabaret, where he had taken Cranston a short time
before. It was crowded when I entered, and, avoiding the headwaiter, I
stood by the door a few minutes and looked over the brilliant and gay
throng. Finally, I managed to catch a glimpse of Cranston's head at a
table in a far corner. As I made my way down the line of tables, I was
genuinely amazed to see that he was with a woman. It was Julia Giles!
She must have come down on the next train after we did, but, at any
rate, it looked as though she had lost no time in seeking out Cranston
after our visit. I took a seat at a table next them.
They were talking about Kennedy, and, during a lull in the music, I
overheard him asking her just what Craig had done.
"It was certainly very clever in him to play both you and Doctor Burr
the way he did. He told Doctor Burr that you had sent him, and told you
that Doctor Burr had sent him. By whom do you suppose he really was
sent?"
"Could it have been my wife?"
"It must have been, but how she did it is more than I can imagine."
"How is she, anyway?" he asked.
"Sometimes she seems to be getting along finely, and then, other days,
I feel quite discouraged about her. Her case is very obstinate."
"Perhaps I had better go out and see Burr," he considered. "It is early
in the evening. I'll drive you out in my car. I'll stay at the
sanatorium tonight, and then, perhaps, I'll know a little better what
we can do."
It was his tone rather than his words which gave me the impression that
he was more interested in being with Miss Giles than with Mrs.
Cranston. I wondered whether it was a plot of Cranston's and Miss
Giles's. Had he been posing before Kennedy, and were they really trying
to put Mrs. Cranston out of the way?
As the music started up again, I heard her say, "Can't we have just one
more dance?" A moment later they were lost in the gay whirl on the
dancing-floor. They made a handsome couple, and it was evident that it
was not the first time that they had dined and danced together. The
music ceased, and they returned to their places reluctantly, while
Cranston telephoned for his car to be brought around to the cabaret.
I hastened back to the laboratory to inform Craig what I had seen. As I
told my story he looked up at me with a sudden flash of comprehension.
"I am glad to know where they will all be tonight," he said. "Some one
has been giving her henbane--hyoscyamin. I have just discovered it in
the tonic."
"What's henbane?" I asked.