VI
THE BEAUTY MASK
"Oh, Mr. Jameson, if they could only wake her up--find out what is thematter--do something! This suspense is killing both mother and myself."
Scenting a good feature story, my city editor had sent me out on anassignment, my sole equipment being a clipping of two paragraphs fromthe morning Star.
GIRL IN COMA SIX DAYS--SHOWS NO SIGN OF REVIVAL
Virginia Blakeley, the nineteen-year-old daughter of Mrs. StuartBlakeley, of Riverside Drive, who has been in a state of coma for sixdays, still shows no sign of returning consciousness.
Ever since Monday some member of her family has been constantly besideher. Her mother and sister have both vainly tried to coax her back toconsciousness, but their efforts have not met with the slightestresponse. Dr. Calvert Haynes, the family physician, and severalspecialists who have been called in consultation, are completelybaffled by the strange malady.
Often I had read of cases of morbid sleep lasting for days and even forweeks. But this was the first case I had ever actually encountered andI was glad to take the assignment.
The Blakeleys, as every one knew, had inherited from Stuart Blakeley avery considerable fortune in real estate in one of the most rapidlydeveloping sections of upper New York, and on the death of their motherthe two girls, Virginia and Cynthia, would be numbered among thewealthiest heiresses of the city.
They lived in a big sandstone mansion fronting the Hudson and it waswith some misgiving that I sent up my card. Both Mrs. Blakeley and herother daughter, however, met me in the reception-room, thinking,perhaps, from what I had written on the card, that I might have someassistance to offer.
Mrs. Blakeley was a well-preserved lady, past middle-age, and verynervous.
"Mercy, Cynthia!" she exclaimed, as I explained my mission, "it'sanother one of those reporters. No, I cannot say anything--not a word.I don't know anything. See Doctor Haynes. I--"
"But, mother," interposed Cynthia, more calmly, "the thing is in thepapers. It may be that some one who reads of it may know of somethingthat can be done. Who can tell?"
"Well, I won't say anything," persisted the elder woman. "I don't likeall this publicity. Did the newspapers ever do anything but harm toyour poor dear father? No, I won't talk. It won't do us a bit of good.And you, Cynthia, had better be careful."
Mrs. Blakeley backed out of the door, but Cynthia, who was a few yearsolder than her sister, had evidently acquired independence. At leastshe felt capable of coping with an ordinary reporter who looked no moreformidable than myself.
"It is quite possible that some one who knows about such cases maylearn of this," I urged.
She hesitated as her mother disappeared, and looked at me a moment,then, her feelings getting the better of her, burst forth with thestrange appeal I have already quoted.
It was as though I had come at just an opportune moment when she musttalk to some outsider to relieve her pent-up feelings.
By an adroit question here and there, as we stood in thereception-hall, I succeeded in getting the story, which seemed to bemore of human interest than of news. I even managed to secure aphotograph of Virginia as she was before the strange sleep fell on her.
Briefly, as her sister told it, Virginia was engaged to Hampton Haynes,a young medical student at the college where his father was a professorof diseases of the heart. The Hayneses were of a fine Southern familywhich had never recovered from the war and had finally come to NewYork. The father, Dr. Calvert Haynes, in addition to being a well-knownphysician, was the family physician of the Blakeleys, as I alreadyknew. "Twice the date of the marriage has been set, only to bepostponed," added Cynthia Blakeley. "We don't know what to do. AndHampton is frantic."
"Then this is really the second attack of the morbid sleep?" I queried.
"Yes--in a few weeks. Only the other wasn't so long--not more than aday."
She said it in a hesitating manner which I could not account for.Either she thought there might be something more back of it or sherecalled her mother's aversion to reporters and did not know whethershe was saying too much or not.
"Do you really fear that there is something wrong?" I asked,significantly, hastily choosing the former explanation.
Cynthia Blakeley looked quickly at the door through which her motherhad retreated.
"I--I don't know," she replied, tremulously. "I don't know why I amtalking to you. I'm so afraid, too, that the newspapers may saysomething that isn't true."
"You would like to get at the truth, if I promise to hold the storyback?" I persisted, catching her eye.
"Yes," she answered, in a low tone, "but--" then stopped.
"I will ask my friend, Professor Kennedy, at the university, to comehere," I urged.
"You know him?" she asked, eagerly. "He will come?"
"Without a doubt," I reassured, waiting for her to say no more, butpicking up the telephone receiver on a stand in the hall.
Fortunately I found Craig at his laboratory and a few hasty words wereall that was necessary to catch his interest.
"I must tell mother," Cynthia cried, excitedly, as I hung up thereceiver. "Surely she cannot object to that. Will you wait here?"
As I waited for Craig, I tried to puzzle the case out for myself.Though I knew nothing about it as yet, I felt sure that I had not madea mistake and that there was some mystery here.
Suddenly I became aware that the two women were talking in the nextroom, though too low for me to catch what they were saying. It wasevident, however, that Cynthia was having some difficulty in persuadingher mother that everything was all right.
"Well, Cynthia," I heard her mother say, finally, as she left the roomfor one farther back, "I hope it will be all right--that is all I cansay."
What was it that Mrs. Blakeley so feared? Was it merely the unpleasantnotoriety? One could not help the feeling that there was something morethat she suspected, perhaps knew, but would not tell. Yet, apparently,it was aside from her desire to have her daughter restored to normal.She was at sea, herself, I felt.
"Poor dear mother!" murmured Cynthia, rejoining me in a few moments."She hardly knows just what it is she does want-except that we wantVirginia well again."
We had not long to wait for Craig. What I had told him over thetelephone had been quite enough to arouse his curiosity.
Both Mrs. Blakeley and Cynthia met him, at first a little fearfully,but quickly reassured by his manner, as well as my promise to see thatnothing appeared in the Star which would be distasteful.
"Oh, if some one could only bring back our little girl!" cried Mrs.Blakeley, with suppressed emotion, leading the way with her daughterup-stairs.
It was only for a moment that I could see Craig alone to explain theimpressions I had received, but it was enough.
"I'm glad you called me," he whispered. "There is something queer."
We followed them up to the dainty bedroom in flowered enamel whereVirginia Blakeley lay, and it was then for the first time that we sawher. Kennedy drew a chair up beside the little white bed and went towork almost as though he had been a physician himself.
Partly from what I observed myself and partly from what he told meafterward, I shall try to describe the peculiar condition in which shewas.
She lay there lethargic, scarcely breathing. Once she had been a tall,slender, fair girl, with a sort of wild grace. Now she seemed to becompletely altered. I could not help thinking of the contrast betweenher looks now and the photograph in my pocket.
Not only was her respiration slow, but her pulse was almostimperceptible, less than forty a minute. Her temperature was far belownormal, and her blood pressure low. Once she had seemed fully a woman,with all the strength and promise of precocious maturity. But now therewas something strange about her looks. It is difficult to describe. Itwas not that she was no longer a young woman, but there seemed to besomething almost sexless about her. It was as though her secondary sexcharacteristics were no longer feminine, but--for want of a betterword--neuter.
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Yet, strange to say, in spite of the lethargy which necessitated atleast some artificial feeding, she was not falling away. She seemed, ifanything, plump. To all appearances there was really a retardation ofmetabolism connected with the trance-like sleep. She was actuallygaining in weight!
As he noted one of these things after another, Kennedy looked at herlong and carefully. I followed the direction of his eyes. Over hernose, just a trifle above the line of her eyebrows, was a peculiar redmark, a sore, which was very disfiguring, as though it were hard toheal.
"What is that?" he asked Mrs. Blakeley, finally.
"I don't know," she replied, slowly. "We've all noticed it. It camejust after the sleep began."
"You have no idea what could have caused it?"
"Both Virginia and Cynthia have been going to a face specialist," sheadmitted, "to have their skins treated for freckles. After thetreatment they wore masks which were supposed to have some effect onthe skin. I don't know. Could it be that?"
Kennedy looked sharply at Cynthia's face. There was no red mark overher nose. But there were certainly no freckles on either of the girls'faces now, either.
"Oh, mother," remonstrated Cynthia, "it couldn't be anything DoctorChapelle did."
"Doctor Chapelle?" repeated Kennedy.
"Yes, Dr. Carl Chapelle," replied Mrs. Blakeley. "Perhaps you haveheard of him. He is quite well known, has a beauty-parlor on FifthAvenue. He--"
"It's ridiculous," cut in Cynthia, sharply. "Why, my face was worsethan Virgie's. Car--He said it would take longer."
I had been watching Cynthia, but it needed only to have heard her tosee that Doctor Chapelle was something more than a beauty specialist toher.
Kennedy glanced thoughtfully from the clear skin of Cynthia to the redmark on Virginia. Though he said nothing, I could see that his mind wason it. I had heard of the beauty doctors who promise to give one a skinas soft and clear as a baby's--and often, by their inexpert use oflotions and chemicals, succeed in ruining the skin and disfiguring thepatient for life. Could this be a case of that sort? Yet how explainthe apparent success with Cynthia?
The elder sister, however, was plainly vexed at the mention of thebeauty doctor's name at all, and she showed it. Kennedy made a mentalnote of the matter, but refrained from saying any more about it.
"I suppose there is no objection to my seeing Doctor Haynes?" askedKennedy, rising and changing the subject.
"None whatever," returned Mrs. Blakeley. "If there's anything you or hecan 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 DoctorChapelle's name to be brought into the case.
We were lucky in finding Doctor Haynes at home, although it was not theregular time for his office hours. Kennedy introduced himself as afriend of the Blakeleys who had been asked to see that I made noblunders in writing the story for the Star. Doctor Haynes did notquestion the explanation.
He was a man well on toward the sixties, with that magnetic qualitythat inspires the confidence so necessary for a doctor. Far fromwealthy, he had attained a high place in the profession.
As Kennedy finished his version of our mission, Doctor Haynes shook hishead with a deep sigh.
"You can understand how I feel toward the Blakeleys," he remarked, atlength. "I should consider it unethical to give an interview under anycircumstances--much more so under the present."
"Still," I put in, taking Kennedy's cue, "just a word to set mestraight can't do any harm. I won't quote you directly."
He seemed to realize that it might be better to talk carefully than toleave all to my imagination.
"Well," he began, slowly, "I have considered all the usual causesassigned for such morbid sleep. It is not auto-suggestion or trance, Iam positive. Nor is there any trace of epilepsy. I cannot see how itcould be due to poisoning, can you?"
I admitted readily that I could not.
"No," he resumed, "it is just a case of what we callnarcolepsy--pathological somnolence--a sudden, uncontrollableinclination to sleep, occurring sometimes repeatedly or at varyingintervals. I don't think it hysterical, epileptic, or toxemic. Theplain fact of the matter, gentlemen, is that neither myself nor any ofmy colleagues whom I have consulted have the faintest idea what itis--yet."
The door of the office opened, for it was not the hour for consultingpatients, and a tall, athletic young fellow, with a keen and restlessface, though very boyish, entered.
"My son," the doctor introduced, "soon to be the sixth Doctor Haynes indirect line in the family."
We shook hands. It was evident that Cynthia had not by any meansexaggerated when she said that he was frantic over what had happened tohis fiancee.
Accordingly, there was no difficulty in reverting to the subject of ourvisit. Gradually I let Kennedy take the lead in the conversation sothat our position might not seem to be false.
It was not long before Craig managed to inject a remark about the redspot over Virginia's nose. It seemed to excite young Hampton.
"Naturally I look on it more as a doctor than a lover," remarked hisfather, smiling indulgently at the young man, whom it was evident heregarded above everything else in the world. "I have not been able toaccount for it, either. Really the case is one of the most remarkable Ihave ever heard of."
"You have heard of a Dr. Carl Chapelle?" inquired Craig, tentatively.
"A beauty doctor," interrupted the young man, turning toward hisfather. "You've met him. He's the fellow I think is really engaged toCynthia."
Hampton seemed much excited. There was unconcealed animosity in themanner of his remark, and I wondered why it was. Could there be somelatent jealousy?
"I see," calmed Doctor Haynes. "You mean to infer that this--er--thisDoctor Chapelle--" He paused, waiting for Kennedy to take theinitiative.
"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 pitchof excitement, "say, do you think it could be any of his confoundednostrums 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 allthat, but--why, he must have hypnotized that girl! Cynthia thinks he'swonderful."
"I'd like to see him," suggested Craig.
"Very well," agreed Hampton, taking him at his word. "Much as I dislikethe fellow, I have no objection to going down to his beauty-parlor withyou."
"Thank you," returned Craig, as we excused ourselves and left the elderDoctor Haynes.
Several times on our journey down Hampton could not resist somereference to Chapelle for commercializing the profession, remarks whichsounded strangely old on his lips.
Chapelle's office, we found, was in a large building on Fifth Avenue inthe new shopping district, where hundreds of thousands of women passedalmost daily. He called the place a Dermatological Institute, but, asHampton 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 sixteenthe seekers did not like to come in contact with one another.
We waited some time in a little private room. At last Doctor Chapellehimself appeared, a rather handsome man with the manner that oneinstinctively feels appeals to the ladies.
He shook hands with young Haynes, and I could detect no hostility onChapelle's part, but rather a friendly interest in a younger member ofthe medical profession.
Again I was thrown forward as a buffer. I was their excuse for beingthere. However, a newspaper experience gives you one thing, if noother--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 herwhen you treated her face. There's a little red spot over her nose thathasn't healed yet."
Kennedy frowned at the impetuous interruption. Yet it was perhaps thebest thing that could have happened.
"So," returned Chapelle, drawing back and placing his head on one sideas 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 newdisfigurement."
"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 wasplainly worried. Under the circumstances, might not his professionalreputation be at stake? What if a hint like this got abroad among hisrich 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 intothis sort of thing. But the common story was that of the swindler--orworse. I had heard of scores of cases of good looks permanently ruined,seldom of any benefit. Had Chapelle ignorantly done something thatwould leave its scar forever? Or was he one of the few who were honestand careful?
Whatever the case, Kennedy had accomplished his purpose. He had seenChapelle. If he were really guilty of anything the chances were all infavor of his betraying it by trying to cover it up. Deftly suppressingHampton, we managed to beat a retreat without showing our hands anyfurther.
"Humph!" snorted Hampton, as we rode down in the elevator and hopped ona 'bus to go up-town. "Gave up legitimate medicine and took up thisbeauty doctoring--it's unprofessional, I tell you. Why, he evenadvertises!"
We left Hampton and returned to the laboratory, though Craig had nopresent intention of staying there. His visit was merely for thepurpose of gathering some apparatus, which included a Crookes tube,carefully packed, a rheostat, and some other paraphernalia which wedivided. A few moments later we were on our way again to the Blakeleymansion.
No change had taken place in the condition of the patient, and Mrs.Blakeley met us anxiously. Nor was the anxiety wholly over herdaughter's condition, for there seemed to be an air of relief whenKennedy told her that we had little to report.
Up-stairs in the sick-room, Craig set silently to work, attaching hisapparatus to an electric-light socket from which he had unscrewed thebulb. As he proceeded I saw that it was, as I had surmised, his newX-ray photographing machine which he had brought. Carefully, fromseveral angles, he took photographs of Virginia's head, then, withoutsaying a word, packed up his kit and started away.
We were passing down the hall, after leaving Mrs. Blakeley, when afigure stepped out from behind a portiere. It was Cynthia, who had beenwaiting to see us alone.
"You--don't think Doctor Chapelle had anything to do with it?" sheasked, in a hoarse whisper.
"Then Hampton Haynes has been here?" avoided Kennedy.
"Yes," she admitted, as though the question had been quite logical. "Hetold me of your visit to Carl."
There was no concealment, now, of her anxiety. Indeed, I saw no reasonwhy there should be. It was quite natural that the girl should worryover her lover, if she thought there was even a haze of suspicion inKennedy'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 thegame by pitting each against all, in the hope of gathering here andthere a bit of the truth. "As soon as I find out anything I shall letyou and your mother know. And you must tell me everything, too."
He paused to emphasize the last words, then slowly turned again towardthe door. From the corner of my eye I saw Cynthia take a step afterhim, pause, then take another.
"Oh, Professor Kennedy," she called.
Craig turned.
"There's something I forgot," she continued. "There's something wrongwith mother!" She paused, then resumed: "Even before Virginia was takendown with this--illness I saw a change. She is worried. Oh, ProfessorKennedy, 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, everynight, 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 wassobbing, 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 thisuncertainty that haunts you."
She could only murmur her thanks as we left.
"It is strange," ruminated Kennedy, as we sped across the city again tothe laboratory. "We must watch Mrs. Blakeley."
That was all that was said. Although I had no inkling of what was backof it all, I felt quite satisfied at having recognized the mystery evenon stumbling on it as I had.
In the laboratory, as soon as he could develop the skiagraphs he hadtaken, Kennedy began a minute study of them. It was not long before helooked over at me with the expression I had come to recognize when hefound something important. I went over and looked at the radiographwhich he was studying. To me it was nothing but successive gradationsof shadows. But to one who had studied roentgenography as Kennedy hadeach minute gradation of light and shade had its meaning.
"You see," pointed out Kennedy, tracing along one of the shadows with afine-pointed pencil, and then along a corresponding position on anotherstandard skiagraph which he already had, "there is a marked diminutionin size of the sella turcica, as it is called. Yet there is no evidenceof a tumor." For several moments he pondered deeply over thephotographs. "And it is impossible to conceive of any mechanicalpressure sufficient to cause such a change," he added.
Unable to help him on the problem, whatever it might be, I watched himpacing up and down the laboratory.
"I shall have to take that picture over again--under differentcircumstances," he remarked, finally, pausing and looking at his watch."To-night we must follow this clue which Cynthia has given us. Call acab, Walter."
We took a stand down the block from the Blakeley mansion, near a largeapartment, where the presence of a cab would not attract attention. Ifthere is any job I despise it is shadowing. One must keep his eyesriveted on a house, for, once let the attention relax and it isincredible how quickly any one may get out and disappear.
Our vigil was finally rewarded when we saw Mrs. Blakeley emerge andhurry down the street. To follow her was easy, for she did not suspectthat she was being watched, and went afoot. On she walked, turning offthe Drive and proceeding rapidly toward the region of cheap tenements.She paused before one, and as our cab cruised leisurely past we saw herpress a button, the last on the right-hand side, enter the door, andstart up the stairs.
Instantly Kennedy signaled our driver to stop and together we hoppedout and walked back, cautiously entering the vestibule. The name in theletter-box was "Mrs. Reba Rinehart." What could it mean?
Just then another cab stopped up the street, and as we turned to leavethe vestibule Kennedy drew back. It was too late, however, not to beseen. A man had just alighted and, in turn, had started back, alsorealizing that it was too late. It was Chapelle! There was nothing todo but to make the best of it.
"Shadowing the shadowers?" queried Kennedy, keenly watching the play ofhis features under the arc-light of the street.
"Miss Cynthia asked me to follow her mother the other night," heanswered, 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," bluffedKennedy.
Chapelle eyed us a moment, in doubt how much we knew. Kennedy played apair of deuces as if they had been four aces instead.
"Not much," replied Chapelle, d
ubiously. "I know that Mrs. Blakeley hasbeen paying money to the old woman, who seems to be ill. Once I managedto get in to see her. It's a bad case of pernicious anemia, I shouldsay. A neighbor told me she had been to the college hospital, had beenone of Doctor Haynes's cases, but that he had turned her over to hisson. I've seen Hampton Haynes here, too."
There was an air of sincerity about Chapelle's words. But, then, Ireflected that there had also been a similar ring to what we had heardHampton say. Were they playing a game against each other? Perhaps--butwhat was the game? What did it all mean and why should Mrs. Blakeleypay money to an old woman, a charity patient?
There was no solution. Both Kennedy and Chapelle, by a sort of tacitconsent, dismissed their cabs, and we strolled on over toward Broadway,watching one another, furtively. We parted finally, and Craig and Iwent 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 havesat 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-raymachine up there again to Blakeley's. Confound it! I hope it's not toolate."
I lost no time in joining him and we were at the house long before anyreasonable hour for visitors.
Kennedy asked for Mrs. Blakeley and hurriedly set up the X-rayapparatus. "I wish you would place that face mask which she was wearingexactly as it was before she became ill," he asked.
Her mother did as Kennedy directed, replacing the rubber mask asVirginia had worn it.
"I want you to preserve that mask," directed Kennedy, as he finishedtaking his pictures. "Say nothing about it to any one. In fact, Ishould advise putting it in your family safe for the present."
Hastily we drove back to the laboratory and Kennedy set to work againdeveloping the second set of skiagraphs. I had not long to wait, thistime, for him to study them. His first glance brought me over to him ashe exclaimed loudly.
At the point just opposite the sore which he had observed on Virginia'sforehead, and overlying the sella turcica, there was a peculiar spot onthe radiograph.
"Something in that mask has affected the photographic plate," heexplained, his face now animated.
Before I could ask him what it was he had opened a cabinet where hekept many new things which he studied in his leisure moments. From it Isaw him take several glass ampules which he glanced at hastily andshoved into his pocket as we heard a footstep out in the hall. It wasChapelle, very much worried. Could it be that he knew his societyclientele 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 theX-ray pictures into his pocket, also, as we went.
As we hurried down-town Chapelle told us how he had tried to keep awatch by bribing one of the neighbors, who had just informed him of thetragedy.
"It was her heart," said one of the neighbors, as we entered the poorapartment. "The doctor said so."
"Anemia," insisted Chapelle, looking carefully at the body.
Kennedy bent over, also, and examined the poor, worn frame. As he didso he caught sight of a heavy linen envelope tucked under her pillow.He pulled it out gently and opened it. Inside were several time-worndocuments and letters. He glanced over them hastily, unfolding first aletter.
"Walter," he whispered, furtively, looking at the neighbors in the roomand making sure that none of them had seen the envelope already. "Readthese. That's her story."
One glance was sufficient. The first was a letter from old StuartBlakeley. Reba Rinehart had been secretly married to him--and neverdivorced. 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 whatcame to them by Blakeley's will.
I read on, to see what, if any, contest she had intended to make. Andas 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 estimatedthe 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 outthe difficulties. The original property had come to him and wouldremain in his hands only on condition that he married one of his ownfaith. She was not of the faith and declined to become so. There hadbeen other family reasons, also. They had been married, with the ideaof keeping it secret until he could arrange his affairs so that hecould safely acknowledge her.
It was, according to her story, a ruse. When she demanded recognitionhe replied that the marriage was invalid, that the minister had beenunfrocked before the ceremony. She was not in law his wife and had noclaim, he asserted. But he agreed to compromise, in spite of it all. Ifshe would go West and not return or intrude, he would make a cashsettlement. 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 evenmarried herself, thinking the first marriage void. Then her secondhusband died and evil times came. Blakeley was dead, but she came East.Since then she had been fighting to establish the validity of the firstmarriage and hence her claim to dower rights. It was a moving story.
As we finished reading, Kennedy gathered the papers together and tookcharge of them. Taking Chapelle, who by this time was in a high stateof excitement over both the death and the discovery, Kennedy hurried tothe Blakeley mansion, stopping only long enough to telephone to DoctorHaynes 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, butmother seems so different. What is it all about?"
As Kennedy said nothing, she turned to Chapelle, whom I was watchingnarrowly. "What is it, Carl?" she whispered.
"I--I can't tell," he whispered back, guardedly. Then, with an anxiousglance at the rest of us, "Is your sister any better?"
Cynthia's face clouded. Relieved though she was about her mother, therewas 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 ofthe ampules and was injecting some of the extract in it into thesleeping girl's arm. Mrs. Blakeley bent over eagerly as he did so. Evenin her manner she was changed. There was anxiety for Virginia yet, butone could feel that a great weight seemed to be lifted from her.
So engrossed was I in watching Kennedy that I did not hear DoctorHaynes and Hampton enter. Chapelle heard, however, and turned.
For a moment he gazed at Hampton. Then with a slight curl of the lip hesaid, in a low tone, "Is it strictly ethical to treat a patient fordisease of the heart when she is suffering from anemia--if you have aninterest in the life and death of the patient?"
I watched Hampton's face closely. There was indignation in every lineof it. But before he could reply Doctor Haynes stepped forward.
"My son was right in the diagnosis," he almost shouted, shaking amenacing finger at Chapelle. "To come to the point, sir, explain thatmark 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 thatthe 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 toneas he looked from one to the other of us.
"The trouble with Miss Virginia," he added, deliberately, "seems to liein one of what the scientists have lately designated the 'endocrineglands'--in this case the pituitary. My
X-ray pictures show thatconclusively.
"Let me explain for the benefit of the rest. The pituitary is an ovalglandular body composed of two lobes and a connecting area, which restin the sella turcica, enveloped by a layer of tissue, about under thispoint." He indicated the red spot on her forehead as he spoke. "It is,as the early French surgeons called it, l'organe enigmatique. Theancients thought it discharged the pituita, or mucus, into the nose.Most scientists of the past century asserted that it was a vestigialrelic of prehistoric usefulness. To-day we know better.
"One by one the functions of the internal secretions are beingdiscovered. Our variously acquired bits of information concerning theductless glands lie before us like the fragments of a modern picturepuzzle. And so, I may tell you, in connection with recent experimentalstudies of the role of the pituitary, Doctor Cushing and othercollaborators at Johns Hopkins have noticed a marked tendency to passinto a profoundly lethargic state when the secretion of the pituitaryis totally or nearly so removed."
Kennedy now had every eye riveted on him as he deftly led the subjectstraight to the case of the poor girl before us.
"This," he added, with a wave of his hand toward her, "is much likewhat is called the Frohlich syndrome--the lethargy, the subnormaltemperature, slow pulse, and respiration, lowered blood pressure, andinsensitivity, 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 astriking resemblance to the pronounced natural somnolence ofhibernation. And induced hypopituitarism--under activity of thegland--produces a result just like natural hibernation. Hibernation hasnothing to do with winter, or with food, primarily; it is connected insome way with this little gland under the forehead.
"As the pituitary secretion is lessened, the blocking action of thefatigue products in the body be-comes greater and morbid somnolencesets in. There is a high tolerance of carbohydrates which are promptlystored as fat. I am surprised, Doctor Haynes, that you did notrecognize the symptoms."
A murmur from Mrs. Blakeley cut short Doctor Haynes's reply. I thoughtI noticed a movement of the still face on the white bed.
"Virgie! Virgie!" called Mrs. Blakeley, dropping on her knee beside herdaughter.
"I'm here--mother!"
Virginia's eyes opened ever so slightly. Her face turned just an inchor two. She seemed to be making a great effort, but it lasted only amoment. Then she slipped back into the strange condition that hadbaffled skilled physicians and surgeons for nearly a week.
"The sleep is being dispelled," said Kennedy, quietly placing his handon Mrs. Blakeley's shoulder. "It is a sort of semi-consciousness nowand the improvement should soon be great."
"And that?" I asked, touching the empty ampule from which he hadinjected 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 countedon restoring her to her former blooming womanhood by pituitrin--and byremoving the cause of the trouble."
Kennedy reached into his pocket and drew forth the second X-rayphotograph he had taken. "Mrs. Blakeley, may I trouble you to get thatbeauty mask which your daughter wore?"
Mechanically Mrs. Blakeley obeyed. I expected Chapelle to object, butnot 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 aphotograph of her taken when she was wearing the mask." He ran hisfinger lightly over the part just above the eyes. "Feel that littlelump, 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 ofthe body," Kennedy considered, slowly, "how could the pituitary bereached? If you will study my skiagraph, you will see how I got myfirst clue. There was something over that spot which caused therefractory sore. What was it? Radium--carefully placed in the mask withguards of lead foil in such a way as to protect the eyes, but directthe emission full at the gland which was to be affected, and thesecretions 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 droppedbefore her. Still kneeling before Virginia's bed, she turned herstartled face at Kennedy, clasping her hands in appeal.
"It was for my girls that I tried to buy her off--for their goodname--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. Shewas contemplating filing suit in the courts to recover a widow'sinterest in the land on which now stand the homes of millionaires,hotel palaces, luxurious apartments, and popular theaters--millions ofdollars' worth of property."
Cynthia moved over and drew her arms about the convulsed figure of hermother.
"Some one else knew of this old marriage of Stuart Blakeley," proceededKennedy, "knew of Reba Rinehart, knew that she might die at any moment.But until she died none of the Blakeleys could be entirely sure oftheir 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 weddinguntil the danger to the fortune was finally removed?" I caught sight ofHampton Haynes, his eyes riveted on the face on the bed before us.
Virginia stirred again. This time her eyes opened wider. As if in adream 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 diedwith her. Nothing can be gained by bringing her case back again--exceptto trouble the Blakeleys in what is rightfully theirs."
Gathering up the beauty mask, the X-ray photographs, and the papers ofMrs. Rinehart, Kennedy emphasized with them the words as he whippedthem out suddenly.
"Postponing the marriage, at the possible expense of Chapelle, untilReba Rinehart was dead, and trusting to a wrong diagnosis and Hampton'sinexperience as the surest way of bringing that result about quickly,it was your inordinate ambition for your son, Doctor Haynes, that ledyou on. I shall hold these proofs until Virginia Blakeley is restoredcompletely to health and beauty."