“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.”
CHAPTER 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 somewhatyounger 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,