“Abderhalden, the great German physiological chemist, has discovered that substances that once get into the blood produce specific ferments. Not long ago, in a case, I showed it by the use of dialyzing membranes. But Abderhalden has found that the polariscope can show it also. And in this case only the polariscope can show what chemistry cannot show when we reach the point of testing Senor Barrios’s blood—if that becomes necessary.”
It was plain that Kennedy was confident. “There are other sources of drugs of the nature used in this case to asphyxiate and kill, but the active principle of all is veratrine. The point is, veratrine from what source? The sabadilla is dextro-rotary; the death camas is levo-rotary. Which is it here?”
As I tried to figure out the ramifications of the case, I could see that it was a cruel situation for one or the other of the girls. Was one of her lovers the murderer of Anitra’s brother? Or was her own brother the murderer of Eulalie’s lover? I looked at the faces before me, now tensely watching Kennedy, forgetful of the wire-like strings which they held in their hands. I studied Teresa de Leon intently for a while. She was still the enigma which she had been the first time I saw her.
Kennedy paused long enough to look through the eyepiece again as if to reassure himself finally that he was right. There was a tantalizing suspense as we waited for the verdict of science on this intensely human tragedy. Then he turned to the queer instrument over which the needle-hand was moving.
“Though some scientists would call this merely a sensitive form of galvanometer,” he remarked, “it is, to me, more than that. It registers feelings, emotions. It has been registering your own every moment that I have been talking.
“But most of all it registers the grand passion. I might even call it a love meter. Love might seem to be a subject which could not be investigated. But even love can be attributed to electrical forces, or, perhaps better, is expressed by the generation of an electric current, as though the attraction between men and women were the giving off of electrons or radiations of one to the other. I have seen this galvanometer stationary during the ordinary meeting of men and women, yet exhibit all sorts of strange vibrations when true lovers meet.”
Not used to Kennedy’s peculiar methods, they were now on guard, ignorant of the fact that that alone was sufficient to corroborate unescapably any evidence they had already given of their feelings toward each other.
Kennedy passed lightly over the torn and bleeding heart of Eulalie. But, much as he disliked to do so, he could not so quickly pass Anitra. In spite of her grief, I could see that she was striving to control herself. A quick blush suffused her face and her breath came and went faster.
“This record,” went on Kennedy, lowering his voice, “tells me that two men are in love with Anitra Barrios. I will not say which exhibits the deeper, truer passion. You shall see for yourself in a moment. But, more than that, it tells me which of the two she cares for most—a secret her heart would never permit her lips to disclose. Nor will I disclose it.
“One of them, with supreme egotism, was so sure that he would win her heart that he plotted this murder of her brother so that she would have the whole estate to bring to him—a terrible price for a dowry. My love meter tells me, however, that Anitra has something to say about it yet. She does not love this man.
“As for Teresa de Leon, it was jealousy that impelled her to follow Jose Barrios from Cuba to New York. The murderer, in his scheming, knew it, saw a chance to use her, to encourage her, perhaps throw suspicion on her, if necessary. When I came uncomfortably close to him he even sent an anonymous telegram that might point toward her. It was sent by the same person who stole in Barrios’s office and shot him with an asphyxiating pistol which discharged a fatal quantity of pure veratrine full at him.
“My love meter, in registering hidden emotions, supplements what the polarimeter tells me. It was the levo-rotary veratrine of the fatal death camas which you used, Page,” concluded Craig, as again the electric attachment clicked shut the lock on the laboratory door.
CHAPTER VIII
THE VITAL PRINCIPLE
“That’s the handwriting of a woman—a jealous woman,” remarked Kennedy, handing to me a dainty note on plain paper which had come in the morning mail.
I did not stop to study the writing, for the contents of the letter were more fascinating than even Kennedy’s new science of graphology.
You don’t know m, but I know of your work of scientific investigation.
Let me inform you of something that ought to interest you.
In the Forum Apartments you will find that there is some strange disease affecting the Wardlaw family. It is a queer disease of the nerves. One is dead. Others are dying.
Look into it.
A FRIEND.
As I read it I asked myself vainly what it could mean. There was no direct accusation against any one, yet the implication was plain. A woman had been moved by one of the primal passions to betray—some one.
I looked up from the note on the table at Craig. He was still studying the handwriting.
“It’s that peculiar vertical, angular hand affected by many women,” he commented, half to himself. “Even at a glance you can see that it’s written hastily, as if under the stress of excitement and sudden resolution. You’ll notice how those capitals—” The laboratory door opened, interrupting him.
“Hello, Kennedy,” greeted Doctor Leslie, our friend, the coroner’s physician, who had recently been appointed Health Commissioner of the city.
It was the first time we had seen him since the appointment and we hastened to congratulate him. He thanked us absently, and it was evident that there was something on his mind, some problem which, in his new office, he felt that he must solve if for no other purpose than to justify his reputation. Craig said nothing, preferring to let the commissioner come to the point in his own way.
“Do you know, Kennedy,” he said, at length, turning in his chair and facing us, “I believe we have found one of the strangest cases in the history of the department.”
The commissioner paused, then went on, quickly, “It looks as if it were nothing less than an epidemic of beriberi—not on a ship coming into port as so often happens, but actually in the heart of the city.”
“Beriberi—in New York?” queried Craig, incredulously.
“It looks like it,” reiterated Leslie, “in the family of a Doctor Wardlaw, up-town here, in the Forum—”
Kennedy had already shoved over the letter he had just received. Leslie did not finish the sentence, but read the note in amazement.
“What are the symptoms?” inquired Craig.
“What makes you think it is beriberi, of all things?”
“Because they show the symptoms of beriberi,” persisted Leslie, doggedly. “You know what they are like. If you care to go into the matter I think I can convince you.”
The commissioner was still holding the letter and gazing, puzzled, from it to us. It seemed as if he regarded it merely as confirming his own suspicions that something was wrong, even though it shed no real light on the matter.
“How did you first hear of it?” prompted Kennedy.
Leslie answered frankly. “It came to the attention of the department as the result of a reform I have inaugurated. When I went in office I found that many of the death certificates were faulty, and in the course of our investigations we ran across one that seemed to be most vaguely worded. I don’t know yet whether it was ignorance—or something worse. But it started an inquiry. I can’t say that I’m thoroughly satisfied with the amended certificate of the physician who attended Mrs. Marbury, the mother of Doctor Wardlaw’s wife, who died about a week ago—Doctor Aitken.”
“Then