before.
In point of fact, one who had been outside at the time might actually have seen a sinister face at that cellar window, but to us upstairs it was invisible. The face was that of the servant, Michael.
Without another word Kennedy passed into the drawing room and took his hat and coat. Both Elaine and Bennett followed.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse me—for the present,” Craig apologized.
Elaine looked at him anxiously.
“You—you will not let that letter intimidate you?” she pleaded, laying her soft white hand on his arm. “Oh, Mr. Kennedy,” she added, bravely keeping back the tears, “avenge him! All the money in the world would be too little to pay—if only—”
At the mere mention of money Kennedy’s face seemed to cloud, but only for a moment. He must have felt the confiding pressure of her hand, for as she paused, appealingly, he took her hand in his, bowing slightly over it to look closer into her upturned face.
“I’ll try,” he said simply.
Elaine did not withdraw her hand as she continued to look up at him. Craig looked at her, as I had never seen him look at a woman before in all our long acquaintance.
“Miss Dodge,” he went on, his voice steady as though he were repressing something, “I will never take another case until the ‘Clutching Hand’ is captured.”
The look of gratitude she gave him would have been a princely reward in itself.
I did not marvel that all the rest of that day and far into the night Kennedy was at work furiously in his laboratory, studying the notes, the texture of the paper, the character of the ink, everything that might perhaps suggest a new lead. It was all, apparently, however, without result.
It was some time after these events that Kennedy, reconstructing what had happened, ran across, in a strange way which I need not tire the reader by telling, a Dr. Haynes, head of the Hillside Sanitarium for Women, whose story I shall relate substantially as we received it from his own lips:
It must have been that same night that a distinguished visitor drove up in a cab to our Hillside Sanitarium, rang the bell and was admitted to my office. I might describe him as a moderately tall, well-built man with a pleasing way about him. Chiefly noticeable, it seems to me, were his mustache and bushy beard, quite medical and foreign.
I am, by the way, the superintending physician, and that night I was sitting with Dr. Thompson, my assistant, in the office discussing a rather interesting case, when an attendant came in with a card and handed it to me. It read simply, “Dr. Ludwig Reinstrom, Coblenz.”
“Here’s that Dr. Reinstrom, Thompson, about whom my friend in Germany wrote the other day,” I remarked, nodding to the attendant to admit Dr. Reinstrom.
I might explain that while I was abroad some time ago, I made a particular study of the “Daemmerschlaf”—otherwise, the “twilight sleep,” at Freiburg where it was developed and at other places in Germany where the subject had attracted great attention. I was much impressed and had imported the treatment to Hillside.
While we waited I reached into my desk and drew out the letter to which I referred, which ended, I recall:
“As Dr. Reinstrom is in America, he will probably call on you. I am sure you will be glad to know him.
“With kindest regards, I am,
“Fraternally yours,
“EMIL SCHWARZ, M. D.,
“Director, Leipsic Institute of Medicine.”
“Most happy to meet you, Dr. Reinstrom,” I greeted the new arrival, as he entered our office.
For several minutes we sat and chatted of things medical here and abroad.
“What is it, Doctor,” I asked finally, “that interests you most in America?”
“Oh,” he replied quickly with an expressive gesture, “it is the broadmindedness with which you adopt the best from all over the world, regardless of prejudice. For instance, I am very much interested in the new twilight sleep. Of course you have borrowed it largely from us, but it interests me to see whether you have modified it with practice. In fact I have come to the Hillside Sanitarium particularly to see it used. Perhaps we may learn something from you.”
It was most gracious and both Dr. Thompson and myself were charmed by our visitor. I reached over and touched a call-button and our head nurse entered from a rear room.
“Are there any operations going on now?” I asked.
She looked mechanically at her watch. “Yes, there are two cases, now, I think,” she answered.
“Would you like to follow our technique, Doctor?” I asked, turning to Dr. Reinstorm.
“I should be delighted,” he acquiesced.
A moment later we passed down the corridor of the Sanitarium, still chatting. At the door of a ward I spoke to the attendant who indicated that a patient was about to be anesthetized, and Reinstrom and I entered the room.
There, in perfect quiet, which is an essential part of the treatment, were several women patients lying in bed in the ward. Before us two nurses and a doctor were in attendance on one.
I spoke to the Doctor, Dr. Holmes, by the way, who bowed politely to the distinguished Dr. Reinstrom, then turned quickly to his work.
“Miss Sears,” he asked of one of the nurses, “will you bring me that hypodermic needle? How are you getting on, Miss Stern?” to the other who was scrubbing the patient’s arm with antiseptic soap and water, thoroughly sterilizing the skin.
“You will see, Dr. Reinstrom.” I interposed in a low tone, “that we follow in the main your Freiburg treatment. We use scopolamin and narkophin.”
I held up the bottle, as I said it, a rather peculiar shaped bottle, too.
“And the pain?” he asked.
“Practically the same as in your experience abroad. We do not render the patient unconscious, but prevent her from remembering anything that goes on.”
Dr. Holmes, the attending physician, was just starting the treatment. Filling his hypodermic, he selected a spot on the patient’s arm, where it had been scrubbed and sterilized, and injected the narcotic.
“How simply you do it all, here!” exclaimed Reinstrom in surprise and undisguised admiration. “You Americans are wonderful!”
“Come—see a patient who is just recovering,” I added, much flattered by the praise, which, from a German physician, meant much.
Reinstrom followed me out of the door and we entered a private room of the hospital where another woman patient lay in bed carefully watched by a nurse.
“How do you do?” I nodded to the nurse in a modulated tone. “Everything progressing favorably?”
“Perfectly,” she returned, as Reinstrom, Haynes and myself formed a little group about the bedside of the unconscious woman.
“And you say they have no recollection of anything that happens?” asked Reinstrom.
“Absolutely none—if the treatment is given properly,” I replied confidently.
I picked up a piece of bandage which was the handiest thing about me and tied it quite tightly about the patient’s arm.
As we waited, the patient, who was gradually coming from under the drug, roused herself.
“What is that—it hurts!” she said putting her hand on the bandage I had tied tightly.
“That is all right. Just a moment. I’ll take it off. Don’t you remember it?” I asked.
She shook her head. I smiled at Reinstrom.
“You see, she has no recollection