her nose. But there were certainly no freckles on either of the girls'
faces now, either.
"Oh, mother," remonstrated Cynthia, "it couldn't be anything Doctor
Chapelle did."
"Doctor Chapelle?" repeated Kennedy.
"Yes, Dr. Carl Chapelle," replied Mrs. Blakeley. "Perhaps you have
heard of him. He is quite well known, has a beauty-parlor on Fifth
Avenue. He--"
"It's ridiculous," cut in Cynthia, sharply. "Why, my face was worse
than Virgie's. Car--He said it would take longer."
I had been watching Cynthia, but it needed only to have heard her to
see that Doctor Chapelle was something more than a beauty specialist to
her.
Kennedy glanced thoughtfully from the clear skin of Cynthia to the red
mark on Virginia. Though he said nothing, I could see that his mind was
on it. I had heard of the beauty doctors who promise to give one a skin
as soft and clear as a baby's--and often, by their inexpert use of
lotions and chemicals, succeed in ruining the skin and disfiguring the
patient for life. Could this be a case of that sort? Yet how explain
the apparent success with Cynthia?
The elder sister, however, was plainly vexed at the mention of the
beauty doctor's name at all, and she showed it. Kennedy made a mental
note of the matter, but refrained from saying any more about it.
"I suppose there is no objection to my seeing Doctor Haynes?" asked
Kennedy, rising and changing the subject.
"None whatever," returned Mrs. Blakeley. "If there's anything you or he
can do to bring Virginia out of this--anything safe--I want it done,"
she emphasized.
Cynthia was silent as we left. Evidently she had not expected Doctor
Chapelle's name to be brought into the case.
We were lucky in finding Doctor Haynes at home, although it was not the
regular time for his office hours. Kennedy introduced himself as a
friend of the Blakeleys who had been asked to see that I made no
blunders in writing the story for the Star. Doctor Haynes did not
question the explanation.
He was a man well on toward the sixties, with that magnetic quality
that inspires the confidence so necessary for a doctor. Far from
wealthy, he had attained a high place in the profession.
As Kennedy finished his version of our mission, Doctor Haynes shook his
head with a deep sigh.
"You can understand how I feel toward the Blakeleys," he remarked, at
length. "I should consider it unethical to give an interview under any
circumstances--much more so under the present."
"Still," I put in, taking Kennedy's cue, "just a word to set me
straight can't do any harm. I won't quote you directly."
He seemed to realize that it might be better to talk carefully than to
leave all to my imagination.
"Well," he began, slowly, "I have considered all the usual causes
assigned for such morbid sleep. It is not auto-suggestion or trance, I
am positive. Nor is there any trace of epilepsy. I cannot see how it
could be due to poisoning, can you?"
I admitted readily that I could not.
"No," he resumed, "it is just a case of what we call
narcolepsy--pathological somnolence--a sudden, uncontrollable
inclination to sleep, occurring sometimes repeatedly or at varying
intervals. I don't think it hysterical, epileptic, or toxemic. The
plain fact of the matter, gentlemen, is that neither myself nor any of
my colleagues whom I have consulted have the faintest idea what it
is--yet."
The door of the office opened, for it was not the hour for consulting
patients, and a tall, athletic young fellow, with a keen and restless
face, though very boyish, entered.
"My son," the doctor introduced, "soon to be the sixth Doctor Haynes in
direct line in the family."
We shook hands. It was evident that Cynthia had not by any means
exaggerated when she said that he was frantic over what had happened to
his fiancee.
Accordingly, there was no difficulty in reverting to the subject of our
visit. Gradually I let Kennedy take the lead in the conversation so
that our position might not seem to be false.
It was not long before Craig managed to inject a remark about the red
spot over Virginia's nose. It seemed to excite young Hampton.
"Naturally I look on it more as a doctor than a lover," remarked his
father, smiling indulgently at the young man, whom it was evident he
regarded above everything else in the world. "I have not been able to
account for it, either. Really the case is one of the most remarkable I
have ever heard of."
"You have heard of a Dr. Carl Chapelle?" inquired Craig, tentatively.
"A beauty doctor," interrupted the young man, turning toward his
father. "You've met him. He's the fellow I think is really engaged to
Cynthia."
Hampton seemed much excited. There was unconcealed animosity in the
manner of his remark, and I wondered why it was. Could there be some
latent jealousy?
"I see," calmed Doctor Haynes. "You mean to infer that this--er--this
Doctor Chapelle--" He paused, waiting for Kennedy to take the
initiative.
"I suppose you've noticed over Miss Blakeley's nose a red sore?"
hazarded Kennedy.
"Yes," replied Doctor Haynes, "rather refractory, too. I--"
"Say," interrupted Hampton, who by this time had reached a high pitch
of excitement, "say, do you think it could be any of his confounded
nostrums back of this thing?"
"Careful, Hampton," cautioned the elder man.
"I'd like to see him," pursued Craig to the younger. "You know him?"
"Know him? I should say I do. Good-looking, good practice, and all
that, but--why, he must have hypnotized that girl! Cynthia thinks he's
wonderful."
"I'd like to see him," suggested Craig.
"Very well," agreed Hampton, taking him at his word. "Much as I dislike
the fellow, I have no objection to going down to his beauty-parlor with
you."
"Thank you," returned Craig, as we excused ourselves and left the elder
Doctor Haynes.
Several times on our journey down Hampton could not resist some
reference to Chapelle for commercializing the profession, remarks which
sounded strangely old on his lips.
Chapelle's office, we found, was in a large building on Fifth Avenue in
the new shopping district, where hundreds of thousands of women passed
almost daily. He called the place a Dermatological Institute, but, as
Hampton put it, he practised "decorative surgery."
As we entered one door, we saw that patients left by another.
Evidently, as Craig whispered, when sixty sought to look like sixteen
the seekers did not like to come in contact with one another.
We waited some time in a little private room. At last Doctor Chapelle
himself appeared, a rather handsome man with the manner that one
instinctively feels appeals to the ladies.
He shook hands with young Haynes, and I could detect no hostility on
Chapelle's part, but rather a friendly interest in a younger member of
the medical profession.
Again I was thrown forward as a buffer. I was their excuse for being
there. However, a newspaper experience gives you one thing, if no
other--assurance.
"I believe you have a patient, a Miss Virginia Blakeley?" I ventured.
"Miss Blakeley? Oh yes, and her sister, also."
The mention of the names was enough. I was no longer needed as a buffer.
"Chapelle," blurted out Hampton, "you must have done something to her
when you treated her face. There's a little red spot over her nose that
hasn't healed yet."
Kennedy frowned at the impetuous interruption. Yet it was perhaps the
best thing that could have happened.
"So," returned Chapelle, drawing back and placing his head on one side
as he nodded it with each word, "you think I've spoiled her looks?
Aren't the freckles gone?"
"Yes," retorted Hampton, bitterly, "but on her face is this new
disfigurement."
"That?" shrugged Chapelle. "I know nothing of that--nor of the trance.
I have only my specialty."
Calm though he appeared outwardly, one could see that Chapelle was
plainly worried. Under the circumstances, might not his professional
reputation be at stake? What if a hint like this got abroad among his
rich clientele?
I looked about his shop and wondered just how much of a faker he was.
Once or twice I had heard of surgeons who had gone legitimately into
this sort of thing. But the common story was that of the swindler--or
worse. I had heard of scores of cases of good looks permanently ruined,
seldom of any benefit. Had Chapelle ignorantly done something that
would leave its scar forever? Or was he one of the few who were honest
and careful?
Whatever the case, Kennedy had accomplished his purpose. He had seen
Chapelle. If he were really guilty of anything the chances were all in
favor of his betraying it by trying to cover it up. Deftly suppressing
Hampton, we managed to beat a retreat without showing our hands any
further.
"Humph!" snorted Hampton, as we rode down in the elevator and hopped on
a 'bus to go up-town. "Gave up legitimate medicine and took up this
beauty doctoring--it's unprofessional, I tell you. Why, he even
advertises!"
We left Hampton and returned to the laboratory, though Craig had no
present intention of staying there. His visit was merely for the
purpose of gathering some apparatus, which included a Crookes tube,
carefully packed, a rheostat, and some other paraphernalia which we
divided. A few moments later we were on our way again to the Blakeley
mansion.
No change had taken place in the condition of the patient, and Mrs.
Blakeley met us anxiously. Nor was the anxiety wholly over her
daughter's condition, for there seemed to be an air of relief when
Kennedy told her that we had little to report.
Up-stairs in the sick-room, Craig set silently to work, attaching his
apparatus to an electric-light socket from which he had unscrewed the
bulb. As he proceeded I saw that it was, as I had surmised, his new
X-ray photographing machine which he had brought. Carefully, from
several angles, he took photographs of Virginia's head, then, without
saying a word, packed up his kit and started away.
We were passing down the hall, after leaving Mrs. Blakeley, when a
figure stepped out from behind a portiere. It was Cynthia, who had been
waiting to see us alone.
"You--don't think Doctor Chapelle had anything to do with it?" she
asked, in a hoarse whisper.
"Then Hampton Haynes has been here?" avoided Kennedy.
"Yes," she admitted, as though the question had been quite logical. "He
told me of your visit to Carl."
There was no concealment, now, of her anxiety. Indeed, I saw no reason
why there should be. It was quite natural that the girl should worry
over her lover, if she thought there was even a haze of suspicion in
Kennedy's mind.
"Really I have found out nothing yet," was the only answer Craig gave,
from which I readily deduced that he was well satisfied to play the
game by pitting each against all, in the hope of gathering here and
there a bit of the truth. "As soon as I find out anything I shall let
you and your mother know. And you must tell me everything, too."
He paused to emphasize the last words, then slowly turned again toward
the door. From the corner of my eye I saw Cynthia take a step after
him, pause, then take another.
"Oh, Professor Kennedy," she called.
Craig turned.
"There's something I forgot," she continued. "There's something wrong
with mother!" She paused, then resumed: "Even before Virginia was taken
down with this--illness I saw a change. She is worried. Oh, Professor
Kennedy, what is it? We have all been so happy. And now--Virgie,
mother--all I have in the world. What shall I do?"
"Just what do you mean?" asked Kennedy, gently.
"I don't know. Mother has been so different lately. And now, every
night, she goes out."
"Where?" encouraged Kennedy, realizing that his plan was working.
"I don't know. If she would only come back looking happier." She was
sobbing, convulsively, over she knew not what.
"Miss Blakeley," said Kennedy, taking her hand between both of his,
"only trust me. If it is in my power I shall bring you all out of this
uncertainty that haunts you."
She could only murmur her thanks as we left.
"It is strange," ruminated Kennedy, as we sped across the city again to
the laboratory. "We must watch Mrs. Blakeley."
That was all that was said. Although I had no inkling of what was back
of it all, I felt quite satisfied at having recognized the mystery even
on stumbling on it as I had.
In the laboratory, as soon as he could develop the skiagraphs he had
taken, Kennedy began a minute study of them. It was not long before he
looked over at me with the expression I had come to recognize when he
found something important. I went over and looked at the radiograph
which he was studying. To me it was nothing but successive gradations
of shadows. But to one who had studied roentgenography as Kennedy had
each minute gradation of light and shade had its meaning.
"You see," pointed out Kennedy, tracing along one of the shadows with a
fine-pointed pencil, and then along a corresponding position on another
standard skiagraph which he already had, "there is a marked diminution
in size of the sella turcica, as it is called. Yet there is no evidence
of a tumor." For several moments he pondered deeply over the
photographs. "And it is impossible to conceive of any mechanical
pressure sufficient to cause such a change," he added.
Unable to help him on the problem, whatever it might be, I watched him
pacing up and down the laboratory.
"I shall have to take that picture over again--under different
circumstances," he remarked, finally, pausing and looking at his watch.
"To-night we must follow this clue which Cynthia has given us. Call a
cab, Walter."
We took a stand down the block from the Blakeley mansion, near a large
apartment, where the presence of a cab would not attract attention. If
there is any job I despise it is shadowing. One must keep his eyes
riveted on a house, for, once let the attention relax and it is
incredible how quickly any one may get out and disappear.
Our vigil was finally rewarded when we saw Mrs. Blakeley emerge and
hurry down the street. To follow her was easy, for she did not suspect
that she was being watched, and went afoot. On she walked, turning off
the Drive and proceeding rapidly toward the region of cheap tenements.
She paused before one, and as our cab cruised leisurely past we saw her
press a button, the last on the right-hand side, enter the door, and
start up the stairs.
Instantly Kennedy signaled our driver to stop and together we hopped
out and walked back, cautiously entering the vestibule. The name in the
letter-box was "Mrs. Reba Rinehart." What could it mean?
Just then another cab stopped up the street, and as we turned to leave
the vestibule Kennedy drew back. It was too late, however, not to be
seen. A man had just alighted and, in turn, had started back, also
realizing that it was too late. It was Chapelle! There was nothing to
do but to make the best of it.
"Shadowing the shadowers?" queried Kennedy, keenly watching the play of
his features under the arc-light of the street.
"Miss Cynthia asked me to follow her mother the other night," he
answered, quite frankly. "And I have been doing so ever since."
It was a glib answer, at any rate, I thought.
"Then, perhaps you know something of Reba Rinehart, too," bluffed
Kennedy.
Chapelle eyed us a moment, in doubt how much we knew. Kennedy played a
pair of deuces as if they had been four aces instead.
"Not much," replied Chapelle, dubiously. "I know that Mrs. Blakeley has
been paying money to the old woman, who seems to be ill. Once I managed
to get in to see her. It's a bad case of pernicious anemia, I should
say. A neighbor told me she had been to the college hospital, had been
one of Doctor Haynes's cases, but that he had turned her over to his
son. I've seen Hampton Haynes here, too."
There was an air of sincerity about Chapelle's words. But, then, I
reflected that there had also been a similar ring to what we had heard
Hampton say. Were they playing a game against each other? Perhaps--but
what was the game? What did it all mean and why should Mrs. Blakeley
pay money to an old woman, a charity patient?
There was no solution. Both Kennedy and Chapelle, by a sort of tacit
consent, dismissed their cabs, and we strolled on over toward Broadway,
watching one another, furtively. We parted finally, and Craig and I
went up to our apartment, where he sat for hours in a brown study.
There was plenty to think about even so far in the affair. He may have
sat up all night. At any rate, he roused me early in the morning.
"Come over to the laboratory," he said. "I want to take that X-ray
machine up there again to Blakeley's. Confound it! I hope it's not too
late."
I lost no time in joining him and we were at the house long before any
reasonable hour for visitors.
Kennedy asked for Mrs. Blakeley and hurriedly set up the X-ray
apparatus. "I wish you would place that face mask which she was wearing
exactly as it was before she became ill," he asked.
Her mother did as Kennedy directed, replacing the rubber mask as
Virginia had worn it.
"I want you to preserve that mask," directed Kennedy, as he finished
taking his pictures. "Say nothing about it to any one. In fact, I
should advise putting it in your family safe for the present."
Hastily we drove back to the laboratory and Kennedy set to work again
developing the second set of skiagraphs. I had not long to wait, this
time, for him to study them. His first glance brought me over to him as
he exclaimed loudly.
At the point just opposite the sore which he had observed on Virginia's
forehead, and overlying the sella turcica, there was a peculiar spot on
the radiograph.
"Something in that mask has affected the photographic plate," he
explained, his face now animated.
Before I could ask him what it was he had opened a cabinet where he
kept many new things which he studied in his leisure moments. From it I
saw him take several glass ampules which he glanced at hastily and
shoved into his pocket as we heard a footstep out in the hall. It was
Chapelle, very much worried. Could it be that he knew his society
clientele was at stake, I wondered. Or was it more than that?
"She's dead!" he cried. "The old lady died last night!"
Without a word Kennedy hustled us out of the laboratory, stuffing the
X-ray pictures into his pocket, also, as we went.
As we hurried down-town Chapelle told us how he had tried to keep a
watch by bribing one of the neighbors, who had just informed him of the
tragedy.
"It was her heart," said one of the neighbors, as we entered the poor
apartment. "The doctor said so."
"Anemia," insisted Chapelle, looking carefully at the body.
Kennedy bent over, also, and examined the poor, worn frame. As he did
so he caught sight of a heavy linen envelope tucked under her pillow.
He pulled it out gently and opened it. Inside were several time-worn
documents and letters. He glanced over them hastily, unfolding first a
letter.
"Walter," he whispered, furtively, looking at the neighbors in the room
and making sure that none of them had seen the envelope already. "Read
these. That's her story."
One glance was sufficient. The first was a letter from old Stuart
Blakeley. Reba Rinehart had been secretly married to him--and never
divorced. One paper after another unfolded her story.
I thought quickly. Then she had had a right in the Blakeley millions.
More than that, the Blakeleys themselves had none, at least only what
came to them by Blakeley's will.
I read on, to see what, if any, contest she had intended to make. And
as I read I could picture old Stuart Blakeley to myself--strong,
direct, unscrupulous, a man who knew what he wanted and got it,
dominant, close-mouthed, mysterious. He had understood and estimated
the future of New York. On that he had founded his fortune.
According to the old lady's story, the marriage was a complete secret.
She had demanded marriage when he had demanded her. He had pointed out
the difficulties. The original property had come to him and would
remain in his hands only on condition that he married one of his own
faith. She was not of the faith and declined to become so. There had
been other family reasons, also. They had been married, with the idea
of keeping it secret until he could arrange his affairs so that he
could safely acknowledge her.
It was, according to her story, a ruse. When she demanded recognition
he replied that the marriage was invalid, that the minister had been
unfrocked before the ceremony. She was not in law his wife and had no
claim, he asserted. But he agreed to compromise, in spite of it all. If
she would go West and not return or intrude, he would make a cash
settlement. Disillusioned, she took the offer and went to California.
Somehow, he understood that she was dead. Years later he married again.
Meanwhile she had invested her settlement, had prospered, had even
married herself, thinking the first marriage void. Then her second
husband died and evil times came. Blakeley was dead, but she came East.
Since then she had been fighting to establish the validity of the first
marriage and hence her claim to dower rights. It was a moving story.
As we finished reading, Kennedy gathered the papers together and took
charge of them. Taking Chapelle, who by this time was in a high state
of excitement over both the death and the discovery, Kennedy hurried to
the Blakeley mansion, stopping only long enough to telephone to Doctor
Haynes and his son.
Evidently the news had spread. Cynthia Blakeley met us in the hall,
half frightened, yet much relieved.
"Oh, Professor Kennedy," she cried, "I don't know what it is, but
mother seems so different. What is it all about?"
As Kennedy said nothing, she turned to Chapelle, whom I was watching
narrowly. "What is it, Carl?" she whispered.
"I--I can't tell," he whispered back, guardedly. Then, with an anxious
glance at the rest of us, "Is your sister any better?"
Cynthia's face clouded. Relieved though she was about her mother, there
was still that horror for Virginia.
"Come," I interrupted, not wishing to let Chapelle get out of my sight,
yet wishing to follow Kennedy, who had dashed up-stairs.
I found Craig already at the bedside of Virginia. He had broken one of
the ampules and was injecting some of the extract in it into the
sleeping girl's arm. Mrs. Blakeley bent over eagerly as he did so. Even
in her manner she was changed. There was anxiety for Virginia yet, but
one could feel that a great weight seemed to be lifted from her.
So engrossed was I in watching Kennedy that I did not hear Doctor
Haynes and Hampton enter. Chapelle heard, however, and turned.
For a moment he gazed at Hampton. Then with a slight curl of the lip he
said, in a low tone, "Is it strictly ethical to treat a patient for
disease of the heart when she is suffering from anemia--if you have an
interest in the life and death of the patient?"
I watched Hampton's face closely. There was indignation in every line
of it. But before he could reply Doctor Haynes stepped forward.
"My son was right in the diagnosis," he almost shouted, shaking a
menacing finger at Chapelle. "To come to the point, sir, explain that
mark on Miss Virginia's forehead!"
"Yes," demanded Hampton, also taking a step toward the beauty doctor,
"explain it--if you dare."
Cynthia suppressed a little cry of fear. For a moment I thought that
the two young men would forget everything in the heat of their feelings.
"Just a second," interposed Kennedy, quickly stepping between them.
"Let me do the talking." There was something commanding about his tone
as he looked from one to the other of us.
"The trouble with Miss Virginia," he added, deliberately, "seems to lie
in one of what the scientists have lately designated the 'endocrine
glands'--in this case the pituitary. My X-ray pictures show that
conclusively.
"Let me explain for the benefit of the rest. The pituitary is an oval
glandular body composed of two lobes and a connecting area, which rest
in the sella turcica, enveloped by a layer of tissue, about under this
point." He indicated the red spot on her forehead as he spoke. "It is,
as the early French surgeons called it, l'organe enigmatique. The
ancients thought it discharged the pituita, or mucus, into the nose.
Most scientists of the past century asserted that it was a vestigial
relic of prehistoric usefulness. To-day we know better.