discovered. Our variously acquired bits of information concerning the
ductless glands lie before us like the fragments of a modern picture
puzzle. And so, I may tell you, in connection with recent experimental
studies of the role of the pituitary, Doctor Cushing and other
collaborators at Johns Hopkins have noticed a marked tendency to pass
into a profoundly lethargic state when the secretion of the pituitary
is totally or nearly so removed."
Kennedy now had every eye riveted on him as he deftly led the subject
straight to the case of the poor girl before us.
"This," he added, with a wave of his hand toward her, "is much like
what is called the Frohlich syndrome--the lethargy, the subnormal
temperature, slow pulse, and respiration, lowered blood pressure, and
insensitivity, the growth of fat and the loss of sex characteristics.
It has a name--dystrophia adiposogenitalis."
He nodded to Doctor Haynes, but did not pause. "This case bears a
striking resemblance to the pronounced natural somnolence of
hibernation. And induced hypopituitarism--under activity of the
gland--produces a result just like natural hibernation. Hibernation has
nothing to do with winter, or with food, primarily; it is connected in
some way with this little gland under the forehead.
"As the pituitary secretion is lessened, the blocking action of the
fatigue products in the body be-comes greater and morbid somnolence
sets in. There is a high tolerance of carbohydrates which are promptly
stored as fat. I am surprised, Doctor Haynes, that you did not
recognize the symptoms."
A murmur from Mrs. Blakeley cut short Doctor Haynes's reply. I thought
I noticed a movement of the still face on the white bed.
"Virgie! Virgie!" called Mrs. Blakeley, dropping on her knee beside her
daughter.
"I'm here--mother!"
Virginia's eyes opened ever so slightly. Her face turned just an inch
or two. She seemed to be making a great effort, but it lasted only a
moment. Then she slipped back into the strange condition that had
baffled skilled physicians and surgeons for nearly a week.
"The sleep is being dispelled," said Kennedy, quietly placing his hand
on Mrs. Blakeley's shoulder. "It is a sort of semi-consciousness now
and the improvement should soon be great."
"And that?" I asked, touching the empty ampule from which he had
injected the contents into her.
"Pituitrin--the extract of the anterior lobe of the pituitary body.
Some one who had an object in removing her temporarily probably counted
on restoring her to her former blooming womanhood by pituitrin--and by
removing the cause of the trouble."
Kennedy reached into his pocket and drew forth the second X-ray
photograph he had taken. "Mrs. Blakeley, may I trouble you to get that
beauty mask which your daughter wore?"
Mechanically Mrs. Blakeley obeyed. I expected Chapelle to object, but
not a word broke the death-like stillness.
"The narcolepsy," continued Kennedy, taking the mask, "was due, I find,
to something that affected the pituitary gland. I have here a
photograph of her taken when she was wearing the mask." He ran his
finger lightly over the part just above the eyes. "Feel that little
lump, Walter," he directed.
I did so. It was almost imperceptible, but there was something.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Located in one of the best protected and most inaccessible parts of
the body," Kennedy considered, slowly, "how could the pituitary be
reached? If you will study my skiagraph, you will see how I got my
first clue. There was something over that spot which caused the
refractory sore. What was it? Radium--carefully placed in the mask with
guards of lead foil in such a way as to protect the eyes, but direct
the emission full at the gland which was to be affected, and the
secretions stopped."
Chapelle gave a gasp. He was pale and agitated.
"Some of you have already heard of Reba Rinehart," shot out Kennedy,
suddenly changing the subject.
Mrs. Blakeley could not have been more astounded if a bomb had dropped
before her. Still kneeling before Virginia's bed, she turned her
startled face at Kennedy, clasping her hands in appeal.
"It was for my girls that I tried to buy her off--for their good
name--their fortune--their future," she cried, imploringly.
Kennedy bent down, "I know that is all," he reassured, then, facing us,
went on: "Behind that old woman was a secret of romantic interest. She
was contemplating filing suit in the courts to recover a widow's
interest in the land on which now stand the homes of millionaires,
hotel palaces, luxurious apartments, and popular theaters--millions of
dollars' worth of property."
Cynthia moved over and drew her arms about the convulsed figure of her
mother.
"Some one else knew of this old marriage of Stuart Blakeley," proceeded
Kennedy, "knew of Reba Rinehart, knew that she might die at any moment.
But until she died none of the Blakeleys could be entirely sure of
their fortune."
It flashed over me that Chapelle might have conceived the whole scheme,
seeking to gain the entire fortune for Cynthia.
"Who was interested enough to plot this postponement of the wedding
until the danger to the fortune was finally removed?" I caught sight of
Hampton Haynes, his eyes riveted on the face on the bed before us.
Virginia stirred again. This time her eyes opened wider. As if in a
dream she caught sight of the face of her lover and smiled wanly.
Could it have been Hampton? It seemed incredible.
"The old lady is dead," pursued Kennedy, tensely. "Her dower right died
with her. Nothing can be gained by bringing her case back again--except
to trouble the Blakeleys in what is rightfully theirs."
Gathering up the beauty mask, the X-ray photographs, and the papers of
Mrs. Rinehart, Kennedy emphasized with them the words as he whipped
them out suddenly.
"Postponing the marriage, at the possible expense of Chapelle, until
Reba Rinehart was dead, and trusting to a wrong diagnosis and Hampton's
inexperience as the surest way of bringing that result about quickly,
it was your inordinate ambition for your son, Doctor Haynes, that led
you on. I shall hold these proofs until Virginia Blakeley is restored
completely to health and beauty."
VII
THE LOVE METER
"Since we brought him home, my brother just tosses and gasps for air.
Oh, I think Eulalie and I shall both go mad!"
The soft, pleading voice of Anitra Barrios and her big, appealing brown
eyes filled with tears were doubly affecting as, in spite of her own
feelings, she placed her hand on that of a somewhat younger girl who
had accompanied her to the laboratory.
"We were to have been married next month," sobbed Eulalie Sandoval.
"Can't you come and see Jose, Professor Kennedy? There must be
something you can do. We fear he is dying--yes, dying."
"Poor little girl!" murmured Anitra, still patting her hand
affectionately, then to us, "You know, Eulalie is the sister of Manuel
Sandoval, who manages the New York business of my brother." She paused.
"Oh, I can't believe it, myself. It's all so strange, so sudden."
For the moment her own grief overwhelmed Anitra, and both sister and
sweetheart of Jose Barrios clung to each other.
"What is the trouble?" soothed Craig. "What has happened? How can I
help you?"
"Everything was so happy with us," cried Anitra, "until Jose and I came
to New York--and--now--" She broke down again.
"Please be calm," encouraged Kennedy. "Tell me everything--anything."
With an effort Anitra began again. "It was last night--quite late--at
his office at the foot of Wall Street--he was there alone," she strove
to connect her broken thoughts. "Some one--I think it must have been
the janitor--called me up at home and said that my brother was very
ill. Eulalie was there with me. We hurried down to him. When we got
there Jose was on the floor by his desk, unconscious, struggling for
breath, just as he is now."
"Did you observe anything peculiar?" queried Kennedy. "Was there
anything that might give you a hint of what had happened?"
Anitra Barrios considered. "Nothing," she replied, slowly, "except that
the windows were all closed. There was a peculiar odor in the room. I
was so excited over Jose, though, that I couldn't tell you just what it
was like."
"What did you do?" inquired Craig.
"What could we do, just two girls, all alone? It was late. The streets
were deserted. You know how they are down-town at night. We took him
home, to the hotel, in a cab, and called the hotel physician, Doctor
Scott."
Both girls were again weeping silently in each other's arms. If there
was anything that moved Kennedy to action it was distress of this sort.
Without a word he rose from his desk, and I followed him. Anitra and
Eulalie seemed to understand. Though they said nothing, they looked
their gratitude as we four left the laboratory.
On the way down to the hotel Anitra continued to pour out her story in
a fragmentary way. Her brother and she, it seemed, had inherited from
their father a large sugar-plantation in Santa Clara, the middle
province of Cuba.
Jose had not been like many of the planters. He had actually taken hold
of the plantation, after the revolution had wrecked it, and had
re-established it on modern, scientific lines. Now it was one of the
largest independent plantations on the island.
To increase its efficiency, he had later established a New York office
to look after the sale of the raw sugar and had placed it in charge of
a friend, Manuel Sandoval. A month or so before he had come to New York
with his sister to sell the plantation, to get the high price that the
boom in sugar had made it worth. It was while he had been negotiating
for the sale that he had fallen in love with Eulalie and they had
become engaged.
Doctor Scott met us in the sitting-room of the suite which Anitra and
her brother occupied, and, as she introduced us, with an anxious glance
in the direction of the door of the sick-room, he shook his head
gravely, though he did his best to seem encouraging.
"It's a case of poisoning of some kind, I fear," he whispered aside to
us, at the first opportunity. "But I can't quite make out just what it
is."
We followed the doctor into the room. Eulalie had preceded us and had
dropped down on her knees by the bed, passing her little white hand
caressingly over the pale and distorted face of Jose.
He was still unconscious, gasping and fighting for breath, his features
pinched and skin cold and clammy. Kennedy examined the stricken man
carefully, first feeling his pulse. It was barely perceptible, rapid,
thready, and irregular. Now and then there were muscular tremblings and
convulsive movements of the limbs. Craig moved over to the side of the
room away from the two girls, where Doctor Scott was standing.
"Sometimes," I heard the doctor venture, "I think it is aconite, but
the symptoms are not quite the same. Besides, I don't see how it could
have been administered. There's no mark on him that might have come
from a hypodermic, no wound, not even a scratch. He couldn't have
swallowed it. Suicide is out of the question. But his nose and throat
are terribly swollen and inflamed. It's beyond me."
I tried to recall other cases I had seen. There was one case of
Kennedy's in which several deaths had occurred due to aconite. Was this
another of that sort? I felt unqualified to judge, where Doctor Scott
himself confessed his inability. Kennedy himself said nothing, and from
his face I gathered that even he had no clue as yet.
As we left the sick-room, we found that another visitor had arrived and
was standing in the sitting-room. It was Manuel Sandoval.
Sandoval was a handsome fellow, tall, straight as an arrow, with bushy
dark hair and a mustache which gave him a distinguished appearance.
Born in Cuba, he had been educated in the United States, had taken
special work in the technology of sugar, knew the game from cane to
centrifugal and the ship to the sugar trust. He was quite as much a
scientist as a business man.
He and Eulalie talked for a moment in low tones in Cuban Spanish, but
it needed only to watch his eyes to guess where his heart was. He
seemed to fairly devour every move that Anitra made about the apartment.
A few minutes later the door opened again and a striking-looking man
entered. He was a bit older than Sandoval, but still young. As he
entered he bowed to Sandoval and Eulalie but greeted Anitra warmly.
"Mr. Burton Page," introduced Anitra, turning to us quickly, with just
the trace of a flush on her face. "Mr. Page has been putting my brother
in touch with people in New York who are interested in Cuban
sugar-plantations." A call from Doctor Scott for some help took both
girls into the sick-room for a moment.
"Is Barrios any better?" asked Page, turning to Sandoval.
Sandoval shook his head in the negative, but said nothing. One could
not help observing that there seemed to be a sort of antipathy between
the two, and I saw that Craig was observing them both closely.
Page was a typical, breezy Westerner, who had first drifted to New York
as a mining promoter. Prom that he had gone into selling ranches, and,
by natural stages, into the promotion of almost anything in the
universe.
Sugar being at the time uppermost in the mind of the "Street," Page was
naturally to be found crammed with facts about that staple. One could
not help being interested in studying a man of his type, as long as one
kept his grip on his pocket-book. For he was a veritable pied piper
when it came to enticing dollars to follow him, and in his promotions
he had the reputation of having amassed an impressive pile of dollars
himself.
No important change in the condition of Barrios had taken place, except
that he was a trifle more exhausted, and Doctor Scott administered a
stimulant. Kennedy, who was eager to take up the investigation of the
case on the outside in the hope of discovering something that might be
dignified into being a clue, excused himself, with a nod to Anitra to
follow into the hall.
"I may look over the office?" Craig ventured when we were alone with
her.
"Surely," she replied, frankly, opening her handbag which was lying on
a table near the door. "I have an equal right in the business with my
brother. Here are the keys. The office has been closed to-day."
Kennedy took the keys, promising to let her know the moment he
discovered anything important, and we hurried directly down-town.
The office of the Barrios Company was at the foot of Wall Street, where
the business of importing touched on the financial district. From the
window one could see freighters unloading their cargoes at the docks.
In the other direction, capital to the billions was represented. But in
all that interesting neighborhood nothing just at present could surpass
the mystery of what had taken place in the lonely little office late
the night before.
Kennedy passed the rail that shut the outer office off from a sort of
reception space. He glanced about at the safe, the books, papers, and
letter-files. It would take an accountant and an investigator days,
perhaps weeks, to trace out anything in them, if indeed it were worth
while at all.
Two glass doors opened at one end to two smaller private offices, one
belonging evidently to Sandoval, the other to Barrios. What theory
Craig formed I could not guess, but as he tiptoed from the hall door,
past the rail, to the door of Jose's office, I could see that first of
all he was trying to discover whether it was possible to enter the
outer office and reach Jose's door unseen and unheard by any one
sitting at the desk inside. Apparently it was easily possible, and he
paused a moment to consider what good that knowledge might do.
As he did so his eye rested on the floor. A few feet away stood one of
the modern "sanitary" desks. In this case the legs of the desk raised
the desk high enough from the floor so that one could at least see
where the cleaning-woman had left a small pile of unsanitary dust near
the wall.
Suddenly Kennedy bent down and poked something out of the pile of dust.
There on the floor was an empty shell of a cartridge. Kennedy picked it
up and looked at it curiously.
What did it mean? I recalled that Doctor Scott had particularly said
that Barrios had not been wounded.
Still regarding the cartridge shell, Kennedy sat down at the desk of
Barrios.
Looking for a piece of paper in which to wrap the shell, he pulled out
the middle drawer of the desk. In a back corner was a package of
letters, neatly tied. We glanced at them. The envelopes bore the name
of Jose Barrios and were in the handwriting of a woman. Some were
postmarked Cuba; others, later, New York. Kennedy opened one of them.
I could not restrain an exclamation of astonishment. I had expected
that they were from Eulalie Sandoval. But they were signed by a name
that we had not heard--Teresa de Leon!
Hastily Kennedy read through the open letter. Its tone seemed to be
that of a threat. One sentence I recall was, "I would follow you
anywhere--I'll make you want me."
One after another Kennedy ran through them. All were vague and veiled,
as though the writer wished by some circumlocution to convey an idea
that would not be apparent to some third, inquisitive party.
What was back of it all? Had Jose been making love to another woman at
the same time that he was engaged to Eulalie Sandoval? As far as the
contents of the letters went there was nothing to show that he had done
anything wrong. The mystery of the "other woman" only served to deepen
the mystery of what little we already knew.
Craig dropped the letters into his pocket along with the shell, and
walked around into the office of Sandoval. I followed him. Quickly he
made a search, but it did not seem to net him anything.
Meanwhile I had been regarding a queer-looking instrument that stood on
a flat table against one wall. It seemed to consist of a standard on
each end of which was fastened a disk, besides several other
arrangements the purpose of which I had not the slightest idea. Between
the two ends rested a glass tube of some liquid. At one end was a lamp;
the other was fitted with an eyepiece like a telescope. Beside the
instrument on the table lay some more glass-capped tubes and strewn
about were samples of raw sugar.
"It is a saccharimeter," explained Kennedy, also looking at it, "an
instrument used to detect the amount of sugar held in solution, a form
of the polariscope. We won't go into the science of it now. It's rather
abstruse."
He was about to turn back into the outer office when an idea seemed to
occur to him. He took the cartridge from his pocket and carefully
scraped off what he could of the powder that still adhered to the outer
rim. It was just a bit, but he dissolved it in some liquid from a
bottle on the table, filled one of the clean glass tubes, capped the
open end, and placed this tube in the saccharimeter where the first one
I noticed had been.
Carefully he lighted the lamp, then squinted through the eyepiece at
the tube of liquid containing what he had derived from the cartridge.
He made some adjustments, and as he did so his face indicated that at
last he began to see something dimly. The saccharimeter had opened the
first rift in the haze that surrounded the case.
"I think I know what we have here," he said, briefly, rising and
placing the tube and its contents in his pocket with the other things
he had discovered. "Of course it is only a hint. This instrument won't
tell me finally. But it is worth following up."
With a final glance about to make sure that we had overlooked nothing,
Kennedy closed and locked the outside door.
"I'm going directly up to the laboratory, Walter," decided Kennedy.
"Meanwhile you can help me very much if you will look up this Teresa de
Leon. I noticed that the New York letters were written on the
stationery of the Pan-America Hotel. Get what you can. I leave it to
you. And if you can find out anything about the others, so much the
better. I'll see you as soon as you finish."
It was rather a large contract. If the story had reached the newspaper
stage, I should have known how to go about it. For there is no
detective agency in the world like the Star, and even on the slender
basis that we had, with a flock of reporters deployed at every point in
the city, with telephones, wires, and cables busily engaged, I might
have gathered priceless information in a few hours. But, as it was,
whatever was to be got must be got by me alone.
I found Teresa de Leon registered at the Pan-America, as Craig had
surmised. Such inquiries as I was able to make about the hotel did not
show a trace of reason for believing that Jose Barrios had been
numbered among her visitors. While that proved nothing as to the
relations of the two, it was at least reassuring as far as Anitra and
Eulalie were concerned, and, after all, as in such cases, this was
their story.
Not having been able to learn much about the lady, I decided finally to
send up my card, and to my satisfaction she sent back word that she
would receive me in the parlor of the hotel.
Teresa de Leon proved to be a really striking type of Latin-American
beauty. She was no longer young, but there was an elusiveness about her
personality that made a more fascinating study than youth. I felt that
with such a woman directness might be more of a surprise than subtlety.
"I suppose you know that Senor Barrios is very seriously ill?" I
ventured, in answer to her inquiring gaze that played from my card to
my face.
For a fleeting instant she looked startled. Yet she betrayed nothing as
to whether it was fear or surprise.
"I have called his office several times," she replied, "but no one
answered. Even Senor Sandoval was not there."
I felt that she was countering as cleverly as I might lead. "Then you
know Mr. Sandoval also?" I asked, adding, "and Mr. Page?"
"I have known Senor Barrios a long time in Cuba," she answered, "and
the others, too--here."
There was something evasive about her answers. She was trying to say
neither too much nor too little. She left one in doubt whether she was
trying to shield herself or to involve another. Though we chatted
several minutes, I could gain nothing that would lead me to judge how
intimately she knew Barrios. Except that she knew Sandoval and Page,
her conversation might have been a replica of the letters we had
discovered. Even when she hinted politely, but finally, that the talk
was over she left me in doubt even whether she was an adventuress. The
woman was an enigma. Had revenge or jealousy brought her to New York,
or was she merely a tool in the hands of another?
I was not ready to return to Kennedy merely with another unanswered
question, and I determined to stop again at the hotel where Barrios and
his sister lived, in the hope of picking up something there.
The clerk at the desk told me that no one had called since we had been
there, adding: "Except the tall gentleman, who came back. I think
Senorita Barrios came down and met him in the tea-room."
Wondering whether it was Page or Sandoval the clerk meant, I sauntered
down the corridor past the door of the tea-room. It was Page with whom
Anitra was talking. There was no way in which I could hear what was
said, although Page was very earnest and Anitra showed plainly that she
was anxious to return to the sick-room up-stairs.
As I watched, I took good care that I should not be seen. It was well
that I did, for once when I looked about I saw that some one else in
another doorway was watching them, too, so intently that he did not see
me. It was Sandoval. Jealousy of Page was written in every line of his
face.
Studying the three, while I could not escape the rivalry of the two
men, I was unable to see now or recollect anything that had happened
which would convey even an inkling of her feelings toward them. Yet I
was convinced that that way lay a problem quite as important as
relations between the other triangle of Eulalie, Teresa, and Barrios. I
was not psychologist enough to deal with either triangle. There was
something that distinctly called for the higher mathematics of Kennedy.
Determined not to return to him entirely empty-mouthed, I thought it
would be a good opportunity to see Eulalie alone, and hurried to the
elevator, which whisked me up to the Barrios apartment.
Doctor Scott had not left his patient, though he seemed to realize that
Eulalie was a most efficient nurse.
"No change," whispered the doctor, "except that he is reaching a
crisis."